


Following Fate

by Taffia



Series: Following Fate [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Castillon, Chantry, DA2, F/M, Hawke joins the Qun, Kadan, Kont-Aar, Kossith, Llomerryn, Par Vollen, Post-Game, Qunandar, Qunari, Qunmance, Rivain, Seere, Tevinter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 74
Words: 152,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taffia/pseuds/Taffia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enraged at a shattered Kirkwall, Marian Hawke flees to join the Qunari.  But her search for stability and peace is challenged at every turn.  Hunted by princes and pirates, bolstered by friends and faith, she embraces her purpose amidst the chaos.  And the world will shake before her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Prologue_

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_~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~  
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" _There are men who embrace destiny; these are the ones who will change the world forever."_

 _~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~_

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_

Marian Hawke glowered at the mess around her. _For just one moment_ , she stewed, _just one single moment, I would like for it to_ not _feel as if I've just lost everything..._

The Gallows courtyard was piled high with broken bronze figures, illumined by a silvery moon and a demonically crimson husk of what had once been Knight-Commander Meredith. The Templars were creeping forward from wherever they'd hidden themselves or had otherwise been engaged fighting, and all it did was make Marian's glower darker. Knight-Captain Cullen was matching her expression even as he looked at her, and it made the warrior grit her teeth to not break down. She didn't need yet another friend-or at least someone she regarded as a friend-upset or turning away from her.

She'd lost her home to the Darkspawn...then her brother to an ogre...then her sister to the Deeproads...then her mother to a crazed blood mage...then the Arishok to his honor...then a compatriot to his own overzealous stupidity. As she stood there, staring at the lyrium-scorched corpse of the Knight-Commander, she felt like she'd just lost everything else there was to lose: her purpose, her will, and any last vestige of love in her heart.

Just before the final onslaught, she had hoped beyond hope that Sebastian would finally return her affections. But it was to no avail. He spoke to her as if there had never been a thing between them, no plans for the future, no underlying emotion. Prior to that, she'd caught wind of things he had said to the others, that the Chantry was still somehow his calling in life no matter how much Starkhaven needed him. And now? Now, even as she stood there in the middle of the courtyard heaving breath and choking back tears and oozing blood from flesh wounds, the mighty Prince of Starkhaven maintained a chaste and polite distance.

Marian found herself wishing that she could spit that far.

Cullen's gaze was still upon her, and she found herself almost shocked to realize that it had been only a moment since the Templars had come forward and her mind buzzed with such thought. One Templar, a young female recruit, had hesitatingly gone up to Meredith's body to examine it, to see what exactly had happened. Was Cullen's look judgmental? Did he suspect that she, Marian Hawke, had done something to cause this? No. The Knight-Captain's look wasn't an accusing one. His expression was very much the same as hers, one borne of weariness and loss beyond accounting. There was a heavy weight now on his shoulders, for Meredith's position had become his.

The warrior tightened her grip on her sword and shield as the Templars drew closer around her group. Even with Anders dead, Marian couldn't forget that she harbored a mage in her ranks-and a blood mage, at that. Merrill seemed to sense the threat as well and shrank back. Then, taking them all by surprise, Cullen dropped to one knee with his sword point-down before him. The other Templars followed suit in a clanging wave of burnished steel. Isabela was immediately at Marian's side, her daggers still drawn and pointed all around as she cautiously sidestepped a protective circle about her dear friend.

"Why are they doing this?" the pirate whispered. "Not that I mind men on their knees before me, but what did you _do_ , Hawke? Or..." Her voice trailed off as she thrust out her jaw in Sebastian's direction.

"Why would Templars defer to a prince that isn't even of this city?" Marian hissed back, hoping that she was right in her way of thinking. But if that was the case, why _were_ they all kneeling?

"Lady Marian Hawke," Cullen's voice announced, echoing easily throughout the silent courtyard, "Due to your actions and your unswerving loyalty to this city and its people, the Templar Order has reached the unanimous decision to instate you as Viscountess of Kirkwall. May the Maker guide your steps."

From somewhere behind her, Marian was certain she heard Bianca's bowstring plink in disbelief.

She took a few deep breaths to steady herself. It was quite true that she had stepped forward a number of times when the city desperately needed guidance, and Meredith's approach (and grip on reality) was clearly failing. But, being as she was Fereldan, she had never truly anticipated that the Free Marchers would see past where she came from or her mercenary tactics. A unanimous vote from the Templars was much more than she had ever dreamed even when...even when she had overheard Sebastian arguing the point so fervently with Aveline.

"And may He guide us all out of this darkness and into a bright new day," she announced in return, hardly recognizing her own voice. It betrayed none of her tiredness or her emotional pain. It was firm, determined, forceful, everything she had been for nearly a decade in spite of all that fate had mercilessly thrown against her. She had clawed against it. She had resolutely climbed to where she now was, and she regretted none of it. But for once, for just once, she wanted fate to give her something other than yet another title useless beyond the walls of Kirkwall.

As the Templars cheered, the Champion of Kirkwall and new Viscountess turned and shouldered her way out of the Gallows courtyard and down to one of the small ferries. For the first time in years, she didn't give a single thought to who might have bothered to follow along.


	2. A Favor Asked

_Chapter One: A Favor Asked_

"You know, you really should redecorate."

Isabela was moving about Marian's private chambers at the Hawke Estate while the manor's mistress stood before the massive stone fireplace, her green eyes staring sullenly at the blazing coals while the flames seemed to make a mockery of her ginger hair. It had been several days since the incident at the Gallows, and Marian had kept herself quite solidly under house arrest out of a simple need for sanity. The people of Kirkwall, as they had done three years prior, cheered her almost like she were Andraste reborn. They hadn't cared for her sacrifices, the pain she felt every time she slew a mage, the way she had seen her sister's face in place of every other. All the rabble cared about was that the Champion had rid them of yet one more overpowering menace.

"No, really," Isabela continued as if Marian had actually responded verbally. "The upholstery is just way too heavy. What are you trying to say? That you're a Viscountess with an overbearing personality who would sooner punch a noble in the jaw than negotiate? Wait...wait, no...completely forget that I said anything at all. I was there when you 'talked' to Lady Harimann."

"Isabela." Marian's voice was soft and strained, but it was more than enough to silence the other woman and bring her quickly to the warrior's side. "Isabela, is your offer to sail with you still open?"

The pirate captain blinked a few times in surprise and puzzlement. "Of course, Hawke. You know it is. But you said you wanted to remain here until all business was concluded. This new title you've acquired implies that a great deal more business is coming your way. En masse."

"Title. Viscountess. Champion. Mercenary. I am all these things and yet none of them. They define my actions but not my _purpose_!" Marian angrily stormed away from the hearth and yanked her sword free from where it hung on a rack beside her armor. Sataareth, the jagged dual-bladed sword of the Arishok. Every enemy felled since that fateful duel had died by this sword, and every step of that journey had felt to her like she'd only furthered what the Qunari had set out to achieve in Kirkwall. She had cleansed it of taint, of ignorance. Or, at least she had tried to. The Arishok had been the only individual with whom she always knew where she stood. She had gained his utmost respect as he had earned hers, despite his seeming lack of heart and alien ways. Talks with Fenris, however, had made her wonder how oppressive the Qunari actually were. If any had a clear view of purpose, it was certainly followers of that creed.

"...Hawke?" Isabela's voice was hesitant as she watched her friend wield the massive sword and swing it shockingly easily with one hand. "Hawke, you know that I'm here for you. We've walked into the abyss together even though we never needed to. Strange as it may sound, I'm plenty willing to continue to do so. Regardless, I would rather prefer that you calm down and explain to me what's going on."

Marian swung the sword about in a horizontal arc, catching a bedpost and completely cleaving it in half. The canopy tore and collapsed in a pile of overpriced Orlesian brocade. Swoop, the mabari hound, could be heard howling downstairs in protest.

"Really, now. You don't say." Isabela waxed sarcastic as she crossed her arms over her chest.

The warrior swung her weapon again, her body even spinning with it to whip more power into the stroke. She took out a second bedpost before bringing the blade down over her head and cleaving a pillow in an explosion of goose down. The upswing caught the blanket between the sword blades and nearly threw Marian completely off balance. Isabela jumped in like a shot, catching her friend and deftly disarming her at the same time. In another smooth motion, she twirled the warrior onto the partially destroyed bed and pinned both her wrists down with one hand, the heavy sword coming precariously close to cutting off one of Marian's legs as its point came to rest on the floor between her knees.

"Now," Isabela said, "what is all this about? I've seen you throw some temper tantrums in your day, but this one outdoes Meredith at her maddest."

Marian looked from the pirate to her sword and back up again, her mouth a grim line of stubbornness.

"Don't make me kiss you to get an answer. I don't love you _that_ much."

Marian almost immediately went limp. Her expression didn't change, but she turned her gaze from Isabela to the ceiling, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. When her voice came, it was a whisper.

"For years, I've only wanted one thing. I've wanted to be happy. I've wanted _him_. For all I've lost, I thought I could still hold on to joy until he...he said..." Her voice trailed off as her chest shuddered with sobs.

"Oh, for the Maker's sake!" Isabela exclaimed, pushing herself off the bed. "You're tearing your house apart over Sebastian!" She yanked Marian to her feet and slapped her soundly across the face.

Marian immediately stopped sobbing but made no move to hit her friend back. She merely put a hand to her slighted cheek and met the other woman's amber eyes.

"Not Sebastian," she said quietly. "He was merely an appealing alternative."

The pirate let go of her friend's silken robe and took a step back. Not Sebastian? Only an alternative? Then what was all that flirting and fawning and plots of the hostile retaking of Starkhaven? That had to have been one of the most elaborate distractions Isabela had ever seen, and she certainly never believed Marian to have the subterfuge to pull it off.

Marian crumpled back onto the bed with her head in her hands. Isabela maintained her distance. She had seen the Champion mourn the deaths of two close family members and watched as she killed a companion out of necessity. She had seen her sad, uncertain, helpless. This was taking it to a new level. The Marian Hawke she saw before her now didn't just look sad or helpless. She looked entirely lost.

"When can you have a crew and be ready to sail?" Marian eventually asked, lifting her tear-stained face and smiling wanly at Isabela.

The pirate rogue no longer felt like pressing the matter further.

"I can be ready tonight if that's what you need."

Marian nodded. "Tomorrow. I should be ready by the evening tide."

Isabela gave a bow of the head and turned to leave. "That's plenty of time. I should have an ideal crew set up for you by then. In the meantime, do try to get some rest. The fact that I could overpower you with that bloody sword in your hand tells me that you're two steps away from total collapse."

"I'm fine."

The pirate grinned from the doorway. "You can't lie to me, Hawke. Besides, even if you did, Varric would just tell me everything, anyway."

With a wink, she left and closed the door behind her.

  


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	3. Returning What Was Lost

_Chapter Two: Returning What Was Lost_

Morning brought with it a sort of serenity that Marian had not felt in some time. It was the calm that came with a definite decision, a choice that had the potential to make a good many things better. She was certainly not about to waste the opportunity. She dressed quickly in a common blue vest and trousers and shoved other necessities, including her armor, into a leather knapsack. This she left sitting upon the ruins of her bed while she wrapped Sataareth in a section of the torn canopy. She grabbed up a couple other sheathed swords and headed downstairs.

"Good morning, messere!"

Marian paused in her steps and looked to the voice.

"Bodhan...I thought I said that you and Sandal were released from your life-debt. You're free to go and return to your merchant business."

"I know, Messere Hawke, and we were just about to. But Sandal wanted to play with the dog, you see, and then the captain of the guard came by looking for you."

"Aveline?"

"Yes, messere. I told her that you haven't been feeling well and that you were still resting. She left in a bit of a huff. Truth be told, that's the fifth time she's popped by since that mess with the Templars."

"Thank you for not telling me."

"Of course, messere. I was merely following your instructions not to be disturbed-and I do apologize for Isabela sneaking in."

Marian actually smiled. For all the fuss she had made last night and for all her general moodiness of late, she had actually been very glad that Isabela had dropped by. Aveline was like a sister but the overprotective sort that was more conscience anything else. Marian hadn't wanted a conscience since the Gallows. She had wanted a direction to go in and the freedom to manage it. If anyone embodied a sense of freedom, it was Isabela.

The Champion continued her way to the front door, swords underarm, before a thought struck her and made her halt again.

"Bodhan," she said, looking over her shoulder to where he was at Sandal's worktable, "I'm going to be sailing out with Isabela with the evening tide. If you do decide to head back out on the road, please know that you're free to use the manor whenever you wish. Otherwise, Varric also has full permissions."

"Ah, you've always been so kind to me, messere. I doubt that will be necessary. King Alistair wrote to say that he and the Hero of Ferelden will be in need of Sandal's runes in the near future if the political climate stays the way it is. He has worries about Orlais. We'll be going back to Denerim."

Marian nodded and left without saying goodbye. Right now, Orlais was not her problem. And she didn't want it to be her problem. The less she knew about it all, the more confident she was that people wouldn't bother her about it in the future.

Ignorance, what bliss.

The weather that day was pleasant. The sky was mostly clear with the occasional swath of billowing white cloud gently sailing over in the sea of sunlight. It was warm with a gentle breeze, an autumn day that would have already carried a chill in Ferelden. As she stepped out into the open air of the courtyard, she couldn't help but inhale a deep breath. For the first time, the air was fresh and free of the odor of smoke and death. It was cleansing, relaxing, and not something she had ever associated with Kirkwall before.

The one she was looking for still maintained his post just a few yards away from her front door. His silver skin glowed in the ambient light and made the red of his warpaint stand out all the more in contrast. His horns were undecorated and his hair combed until it hung straight and glossy. Taarbas. Months ago, she had made a promise to help him retrieve all the swords of fallen Qunari, and after exhaustive searching, she was certain she found as many as would be possible. As she approached, the Qunari looked up and nodded to her with respect.

" _Shanedan_ , Serah Hawke," he said, his deep voice controlled and smooth. "I see you have found still more Qunari blades."

"I have," she replied, handing over the small number of sheathed longswords. "And I have found one other that you did not request of me but I feel only proper to return." She held out the sword bound in brocade with both hands, lowering her head in almost a bow of reverence.

Taarbas' brow furrowed as he accepted the sword and unwrapped it. His violet eyes widened when he saw the shining length of Sataareth, and he looked quickly from the blade to Marian. "The demands of the Qun are clear," he said to her. "You earned this sword in single combat, and it is yours by right as _basalit-an_."

"That sword belongs in the hand of an Arishok...not a human, no matter if she has status as _basalit-an_. I promised to return all the blades of the fallen. That is most certainly one of them."

"Then, Serah Hawke, you have earned the rank of _Ben-Hassrath_ and this should be yours." Instead of returning Sataareth, Taarbas set the sword to the side and retrieved another from a crate behind him. When he unsheathed it before her, Marian could see that it was a blade of incomparable keenness, and she recognized it as being the sort carried by the Qunari Sten warriors. "You have defended our faith despite the laws and prejudices of your kind. This sword is _Bassrath-Kata_ and is an extension of your soul. Guard it or lose all honor."

Marian took the weapon and tried it out in her hand. It was better balanced than Sataareth and allowed her a greater deal of agility. Satisfied, she sheathed the weapon and belted it around her waist. When she returned her attention to Taarbas, she could see him packing up the crates of weapons and directing converted elves to carry them to the docks.

"Are you leaving?"

Taarbas turned back to her and nodded a single time. "My demand here is fulfilled. It is time for me to return to Par Vollen and deliver these to the new Arishok."

Memories of the great, horned figure flashed through the Champion's mind: visions of him sitting proudly on his makeshift throne in the Docks, glimpses of him standing silhouetted in the glaring sun as he considered the weight of his duty to the Qun, the memory of him lying bleeding and dying on the floor of the Viscount's throne room... Marian shook her head quickly to dismiss the thought before she rushed to catch up with Taarbas. He was already walking away in the direction of the Docks.

"Has a ship come to take you? Has it always been here ready for when your task is complete?"

The Qunari did not pause to look at her or give any other sign he was paying attention. He merely responded, "The ship was destroyed by more of your religious fanatics. I was not brought here by other Qunari but by _bas_ that I had paid to give me safe passage. I will find another willing to return me at least to the shores of Rivain. From there, it will be easy to find Qunari to take me to Par Vollen."

Marian reached out a hand and lightly touched his arm. Taarbas stopped and turned to her, a surprised if slightly annoyed look on his face.

"I have a ship," she said, the idea rushing to her head and out her mouth faster than she could mentally control. "We sail with the evening tide. With the captain being Rivaini, I'm certain that I could convince her to sail in that direction."

The Qunari nodded but replied, "I have heard that your rank has changed in your city, _basalit-an_. Are you not now the Arishok to these _bas_?"

"No," Marian stated with a certainty that surprised her. "If the principles of the Qun are to be applied-as I understand them-the Arishok here would be Knight-Commander Cullen. And that is all they have. There is no Arigena or Ariqun...or equivalent.

"Nothing that was here functioned," she went on as Taarbas continued walking and she fell into step beside him. "I know you saw that. This city was all body with no mind and hardly any soul. Elthina-the Grand Cleric-was as close as Kirkwall came, but she refused to step forward to return balance when she was needed most. And she died for it." Marian suddenly fell silent and bit her lips together. Her hands trembled at her sides, clenched tightly into fists.

"It is impossible to apply the Qun to a society that claws against it. Even you, Serah Hawke, have fought against what you inherently are merely to gain a title for yourself in this quagmire of _vashedan_. I have been watching. Tell me, for all you have done, does it feel at all like you helped these _bas_ you claimed to the Arishok that you could show a better way?"

"No. It feels that, for all I have done, all they want is for me to do even more. They are as sheep...they mindlessly follow the shepherd and are only lost without him."

"They do not understand their purpose, and thus they try to impose one upon you."

"Exactly."

The two fell silent as they reached the Docks. Marian gestured to where Isabela's new ship lay at anchor, and the elven _viddathari_ carried away the crates that they might be loaded. It was then that Taarbas took his leave to finish any preparations. Marian, herself, had more preparations to make...like informing her captain that they would now be transporting a Qunari as near as they could to his homeland. She wasn't exactly looking forward to it.

" _Panahedan_ , Serah Hawke," Taarbas said to her with a respectful bow of the head. " _Maaras shokra. Anaan esaam Qun_."

Marian returned the gesture and replied, " _Asit tal-eb_ ," as if it were the most normal thing in the world.


	4. Questioning Beliefs

_Chapter Three: Questioning Beliefs_

Marian returned to her manor just long enough to retrieve her knapsack and Swoop. The house was empty. Bodhan and Sandal had already left, and for the first time in years, no fire blazed in the hearth of the great room. The Champion paused only once to look one last time at a portrait of her mother.

She remembered life in Lothering. It was there that she learned to fight in order to protect her sister's freedom. She had used that in the battle against the Darkspawn and had never stopped since she set foot in Kirkwall. Fighting wearied her, and because of it, she had lost everything close to her. But, if she were not a warrior, what in the world was she? She knew of no other way.

That was the reason for setting sail. Isabela had known true freedom and insisted on supporting it wherever there was a need. It had kept Marian from going overboard so many times during the years in Kirkwall, keeping her from succumbing to the ever-building rage that slowly overtook her heart. Leandra had wanted her daughter to marry and settle down, to start a new family for the one she had lost. The only attempt at that had borne no fruit whatsoever. Marian knew that Sebastian was putting all his effort into rebuilding the Chantry. There was never a place for them in such a broken world as this.

Resolute in her decision, Marian said goodbye to the painting and left her manor once more and for the final time. No matter the family ties, there had never been anything for her here.

* * *

"There is absolutely no way that we're transporting Qunari, Hawke. Not after what happened here."

"I would really like to know who made you in charge of this expedition, then, Guard-Captain, as you weren't even supposed to be involved." Marian looked pointedly at Isabel, who proceeded to shrug innocently.

"The whore had nothing to do with this," Aveline went on. "Did you think I wouldn't have my eye on you after you locked yourself away as you did? I'm worried about you, Hawke-even more that I know you're planning to flee! Cullen and I can't set this city to rights without you. The task is too big."

Marian slammed her knapsack down on the quayside and stepped over to the red-haired woman until they were nearly nose to nose. "Too big? Of course it's too bloody big! Even if all three of us put our entire lives into it, we wouldn't manage much. I'm sure the people of Kirkwall are pliant now with the afterglow of victory still shining on their faces, but how long do you think that will last? You, Cullen, me-we're all bloody Fereldan. Once that sinks in, some Marcher with a thirst for power as Meredith had will come knocking on the door of Viscount's Keep. I don't have the stomach to sort someone else's problems again." She prodded a finger into Aveline's heavily armored chest. "To the Void with them."

Aveline stepped back, aghast. She had never seen Marian so wild-eyed, so exhausted yet carried entirely on the shoulders of anger. It called for intervention, and it was needed right then and there.

"These people made you what you are, Hawke! They are eternally grateful to you, and they will never again care whether or not you're Fereldan or Free Marcher."

"Made me what I am?" The Champion's voice dripped with the irony of it. "I hate what I am. I have done nothing but struggle against a society that sees struggle as the only way to get anywhere. I'm tired. I no longer wish to fight just to live as I see fit. I shouldn't have to." She picked up her pack and walked purposefully to the ship, sailors visible in the rigging preparing everything for that evening's sail.

Aveline was not to be brushed aside in such a way. She had one last tactic before she totally lost patience.

"You can't just leave, Hawke," she said, her voice more pleading than angry. "Kirkwall made you Viscountess because you are the best for the job. And you know you are. You have the ability to manage this city so that it can be the best it has ever been. You won't be alone. You have your friends."

Marian halted just steps away from the gangplank. She didn't have to turn around to know that Aveline's expression was a mix of sorrow and frustration. The years had been hard on them both, but they had been as sisters, sharing the common bond of serving in King Cailan's army against the Blight. The Champion knew that if she boarded that ship, Aveline would feel obligated to come along, even if it meant abandoning her duties to the city guard interminably.

"I need to leave," Marian stated firmly, still not turning around. "And I need you here. Seneschal Bran is well acquainted with the duties of a Viscount. I'm certain that he'll be more than capable of taking care of things until my return."

"But, Hawke-"

"I need you _here_." Only then did the Champion look over her shoulder to lock eyes with Aveline. Their green eyes were nearly identical. Not only did they act as sisters, but they very well looked the part, too. None would have been the wiser that it had been totally by chance that they knew each other at all.

That same similarity is what ultimately forced Aveline to drop the subject entirely. With a sigh, she turned and walked away, her steps carrying the heavy weight of disappointment. Marian did not like watching her dearest friend leave-on her own command, no less-but she knew it would be too much to ask that Aveline even understand what the Champion intended to do once out to sea. Just to understand...not even approve. It would make her fellow soldier about as useless as the Grand Cleric had been controlling the mages and Templars barely a week prior.

Isabela had remained gloriously silent during the heated exchange and continued to be quiet as she followed Marian up the gangplank and onto the main deck of the ship. Once she set foot on the newly swabbed golden wood, however, it became an entirely different story. She immediately began barking out orders to the sailors in a strange dialect common amongst seafarers. Entire syllables were dropped. Words not used anywhere on land flew about like so much hot air, and no one, no matter their country of origin, failed to understand.

The bustle brought a few others up on deck from somewhere down below. Squinting as if he'd gotten used to a lack of sunlight, Fenris appeared from a hatch on the forward deck. Varric was also present. The dwarf leaped down from where he had been standing near the helm, Bianca firmly strapped to his back like she was just another extension of his stout body.

"Come now, Hawke," he said lightly in response to the woman's blatant look of surprise. "Surely you couldn't expect us _all_ to stay behind."

"Varric...but..."

The dwarf shrugged. "I hear there are plenty of exiled dwarven nobles in Rivain-not just Lord Harrowmont. We still have spoils from the Deep Roads to rid ourselves of, and they are exactly the right buyers."

"And if you insist on going into Qunari territory," Fenris added, stepping forward, "I needn't remind you of my extensive knowledge."

Marian raised an eyebrow at him before nodding in the direction of where Taarbas was helping to stow his cargo below decks.

"Well..." the warrior shrugged helplessly, "It never hurts to have a foreigner also familiar with the culture. It's not exactly a friendly part of the world we're sailing to."

"Face it, Hawke. You might have put Freckles in her place in telling her to sod off, but you can't get rid of us. We have less to lose in leaving Kirkwall than you do."

Marian simply stood there and digested that for a moment, looking from the dwarf to the elf and back again. Then, she asked with just a hint of humor in her voice, "Freckles?"

"What can I say," Varric replied lightheartedly. "'Guard-Captain Aveline' was really getting to be too much of a mouthful."

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	5. Secrets Between Sea and Sky

_Chapter Four: Secrets Between Sea and Sky_

They set out to sea on schedule, weighing anchor as the sun touched the water on the horizon, blazing a path of fire across the gentle waves of the harbor and open ocean beyond. The wind was in their favor as they cut lightly across the water. The prow rose and fell with the movement of the waves, and a white trail of foam roiled in their wake. Marian Hawke stood upon the forward deck, breathing in air that smelled of freedom even before the Twins passed them by and fell into the distance.

When darkness fell, Isabela came up to join her, lighting two lanterns on either side of the figurehead.

"Charming, isn't she? It took me a while to realize it, but I do believe that's the likeness of Castillon's favorite mistress. She's some tavern wench in Val Royeaux named Papillon...which I always thought was a rather ridiculous name. It doesn't sound very feminine or comely, does it? Papillon..." Isabela rolled the word over her tongue a few more times before leaning on the railing beside Marian. "I've thought of a name for the ship, you know. I figured it was probably best to pass it by you, first."

Marian looked over at her curiously. Already, cares seemed to be lifted from her, and it was evident on her face.

"I thought it prudent to name the ship _Hawke's Flight_. Lots of double meaning there."

The Champion of Kirkwall laughed, loud and melodic, a sound that just about no one had heard in several weeks. Isabela reacted in kind by blinking rapidly in shock before allowing herself a hesitant smile.

"Do you...approve?"

"Of course I approve," Marian replied, still chuckling a little. "It is what it is, after all."

"Indeed. Honestly, it's a result of Varric and me dipping into the rum a little early, but I'll see to it that it gets painted on the stern in the morning. Have you decided where you're going to sleep? There are two bunks in the captain's quarters if you don't mind sharing with me. Otherwise, there's a bit of a closet downstairs across from where Fenris found a space."

"So long as I don't have to worry about any late-night visitors, I'd rest a little easier in the same cabin as the only other female. It's what I'm used to after so many years with only...Mother and Bethany."

Isabela rested a hand on Marian's and gave it a squeeze of understanding. "You don't have to worry. Remember? I told you that I don't have relations with my crew. It's bad for morale."

"And I should have listened to you," the warrior replied with a sardonic smile. "I actually tried for relations with _my_ crew, and look where that got me."

"They still all listened to you." The captain turned herself around so that her back and elbows were resting on the wooden railing. Marian continued to look out at the midnight blackness of the sea. "And you can rest assured that there was nothing lost. Anders was a crazy mage like all the others in that blasted city, and Sebastian was too much of a prude for his own good. Fenris wouldn't know what to do with it if you gave him the time of day, and Varric...well, perhaps Varric wouldn't be so bad. Still."

The two women fell silent for a time, both enjoying the night air and ocean spray and the gentle rise and fall of the ship beneath them. It had such a soothing effect that it wasn't long before Marian felt very much herself again, almost as if nothing had been bothering her at all. _It's that city_ , she thought to herself. _Whatever the Tevinter Imperium had done there touches everyone...not just mages. If I ever go back there, it will be too soon._

"So..." Isabela began when she couldn't stand the quiet anymore. "What was it that you were going on about last night? Truly. If you weren't raving about Sebastian...who _were_ you raving about?"

"I don't think you would understand."

"Oh, I think I would. I was with you every step of the way, remember? Comrades in arms through the twisting streets of Kirkwall. What man did you meet that I never saw?"

Marian looked at her friend, a hard sheen in her eyes. "Not every step."

Isabela's expression fell. She gulped back any joke she had been prepared to make, any lighthearted encouragement for whatever imaginary shining knight the Champion could possibly name. She knew exactly what her friend was referring to: all those times she'd avoided going into the Qunari compound in the Docks.

Now, the pirate captain might have been frivolous, but she certainly didn't consider herself stupid. It only took a matter of moments for her guilt to turn into puzzlement and from there to relative shock and alarm. Her mouth dropped open with the realization and started to form into a broad grin when another thought crossed her mind.

"A Qunari?" she whispered gleefully. "I never would have...well, I _would_ have, but they rather had a call out for my death and all that but...they really are...rather appealing in a very large sort of way, if you like that type of thing." She swallowed her next comment when Marian's hard stare narrowed to one more menacing. "I should have guessed, with all those serious talks you and Fenris kept having...him teaching you the language and all."

Her tone and expression completely sobered in a flash as she twisted herself around to be leaning forward on the railing again.

"I'm not going to pretend to understand," she said gently. "I doubt I'm even thinking along the vein I should be. You know where my brain goes...always down someone's britches. But in all seriousness, even if it's just the strange doctrine they follow, please be careful. You could so easily lose yourself."

"I already lost myself," Marian breathed, staring out into the middle distance. "Between the Blight and my time in Kirkwall, I lost everything I held dear. Everything. Even my sense of purpose and direction. Through my talks with the Arishok, I saw that what drove him and his people was a calling beyond the petty squabbles of one class or one city. People see them as a threat because of their warlike nature...but I think my being a warrior gave me a different perspective. I understand that war is often a means to an end and sometimes the only one." She looked down to her pale hands where they hung over the side, her long fingers woven together. "The truth was, they didn't turn to violence until there was no other alternative. He waited and searched for six years for that relic." Her eyes flashed back up to her friend. "That was six years of waiting for you to be honest."

Isabela blushed in the darkness. "You know I was looking."

"I know. But it could have ended better for everyone if you'd told me what was going on from the beginning."

"If I had," the pirate retorted a little playfully, seeing an opportunity to lighten the oppressive mood, "you wouldn't have had so many chances to help out the Arishok, meaning you wouldn't have gotten to know him so well, meaning you would never have had the chance to earn his respect as you did." She nudged her friend with her shoulder. "I'm Rivaini, Hawke. I grew up not far from where the Qunari have a settlement. To earn their respect—especially from one of the Triumvirate—is no small task."

She sighed and straightened, adjusting her corset a bit before making for the steps to the main deck. "If you want to follow the Qun, I certainly won't stop you. It's not for me, but from what I know of you, it's right up your alley." She paused halfway down the stairs and turned to regard her friend, concern creasing her brow. "But if it's a _Qunari_ you're after and not his way of thinking, then, my dearest, you're more likely to squeeze affection from a stone."

Without another word, Isabela continued downward and across the lamplit deck to her quarters under the aft castle. Marian watched her go before turning her attention back to the deep blackness of the sea, losing her thoughts into a void all her own.


	6. Seeking Vengeance, Finding Justice

_Chapter Five: Seeking Vengeance, Finding Justice_

That night, she dreamed she was back in Lothering. No. No, it wasn't Lothering, but a village that looked very much like it. Townsfolk milled everywhere, chatting or running errands or doing chores. Everyone seemed happy and carefree. It was a sunny day, warm, and there was a scent on the wind that reminded Marian of flowers that only grew in Ferelden. Where was she?

She began to wander the streets. Most people ignored her, but some would nod their heads and smile in greeting. She would return the favor. None called her Viscountess or Champion. None of them called her by name at all, but the presence of a total stranger didn't seem to bother them.

Eventually, she came upon a large manor house at the center of the village. The gate was securely locked, and the high stone walls were overgrown with ivy and in an advanced state of disrepair. The local magistrate's home? But that was impossible as no one could possibly be living in such a run-down place. The rest of the village was very well tended...why let its crowning jewel fester? As she approached, she noticed a figure standing before the gates. It was immaterial at first, but it was definitely the figure of a man upon closer inspection. He was nearly transparent, little more than a frame of golden light with human features. He turned at the sound of her footsteps.

"Anders!" Marian gasped, shocked to see the mage even in such a ghostly form.

The figure smiled and shook his head.

"You are mistaken, madam. I," he made a deep, sweeping bow, "am Justice. If I still bear a resemblance to our mutual friend, I'm afraid it's merely what imprint he left on me...as I left one on him."

The voice did not belong to Anders at all. It was too deep and almost grandiose. It reminded Marian of tourneys between knights and warriors where they purposely put on airs to impress any ladies in the audience. Justice, she decided, was slightly pretentious.

"Alright...Justice." Marian feigned a curtsy as it somehow felt appropriate and then stepped closer to the spirit. "I have the horrible suspicion that I'm in the Fade."

"You are."

"How?"

Justice rubbed at his jaw in thought. He jumped a little when his fingers trailed over Anders' stubble, but he quickly recollected himself. He crossed his arms over his chest instead.

"You've had Templar training, and you've lived where the Veil has been sundered. And you were around me-Anders-for years. And given your family history...it's quite possible that you've developed a feel for this place. Or," he took a step forward and whispered almost conspiratorially into her ear, "you could just be dreaming."

Marian jerked back from him slightly. When he whispered, he had lightly touched her shoulder, and a tingling sensation had coursed through her. Justice took notice of her reaction and took a step back.

"So sorry," he said. "I still forget that I've returned to a state of pure energy. Care to walk with me?"

"Why?"

He blinked at her. "Well, there must be a reason that you're here, dream or no. Perhaps, if we wander we can find it." He held out a hand for her to follow, Anders' face beaming at her with such friendliness she felt her gut drop.

"I can't," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. She suddenly felt cold and hugged her arms tightly to her. "I...I killed you."

Justice walked back over to her, lifting her chin with his hand as gently as he could. Marian didn't mind the tingle so much that time. It felt warm, unthreatening. "What you killed was the shell of a man who wanted to die. He did it for my sake, and his, and for every mage in Thedas." He wiped away the tears from her eyes. "You differed on ideals, and he went too far with his actions. I tell you with confidence, madam. His punishment was just."

Marian nodded but continued to weep. Perhaps that's why she was here, why the Maker had seen fit to let her pass into the Fade, simply to find Justice and be able to mourn the friend that had died by her own hand. The realization should have sent her back.

It didn't.

When she opened her eyes, Justice was still standing before her, waiting patiently and expectantly. Without a word, he smiled again and took her by the hand. He led her around the village and told her how Anders had once come here with the Warden and saved the spirits of the people from a terrible Pride demon. Blackmarsh, he said the place was. Admittedly, Justice talked more about Anders than he did anything else, going on and on about what the mage's life had been like in the Circle and with the Wardens. There was some extended soliloquy about a figure named Ser Pounce-a-Lot, and Marian had the creeping suspicion that a lot of troubles could have been avoided if she'd only given Anders a new marmalade cat.

"Aye," Justice sighed as they finished the tour exactly where they had started it. "It was a hard lesson to learn for so many. Magic, darkspawn blood, and a spirit with an agenda-no matter how noble-should simply never mix."

"I'm glad they did," Marian replied with a warm smile. She no longer felt overwhelmed with guilt. There was only a lingering sadness. It was a relief, as if she were finally able to let herself mourn.

Justice smiled and bowed grandly again, kissing her hand as a gentleman of old.

"Take care of yourself, Marian Hawke. You are a paragon among mortals, and it has been my honor to fight at your side in such a cause as was just."


	7. Aboard Hawke's Flight

_Chapter Six: Aboard Hawke's Flight_

Dawn broke as clear as the day before. Marian opened her eyes to see sunlight pouring onto the floor through the great glass windows of the captain's cabin, falling upon the Orlesian carpet that appeared to blossom like a manicured garden. Her hands still tingled with warmth as if Justice were still holding them, and she realized that she actually felt at peace. It wasn't the sort that was only a calm between storms. She felt lighter. She could breathe easier. She could think on Sebastian without wanting to set his hair on fire. It felt like a good day.

She rose slowly, careful to mind the low overhang that was used to store her belongings, and found her boots. As she held them in her hands, she took a good hard look at them. They were the same knee-high leather boots she'd worn for the past several years. Under armor or alone, they had tromped all over Kirkwall and its surrounding territories. Without much thought, she unlatched one of the casement windows and tossed them outside, casually brushing her hands off when she heard the satisfying splash.

Filled with a sudden inspiration, she rushed back to her bunk and grabbed her knapsack from the shelf and dumped the entire contents onto her disheveled blankets. There was her Champion's armor, the _Bassrath-Kata_ given her by Taarbas, a couple changes of clothes, miniature portraits of her mother and sister, her journal, and the entire bound serial of _Hard in Hightown_.

"What?" Hawke dropped the books in surprise. She did _not_ seriously pack those...did she? She couldn't remember. Her mood at that particular time had been so dark that all she could remember was jamming whatever she could grab into the leather sack. She peered at the mass-produced canvas covers. " _Hard in Hightown: Hard Dock Nights_. Oh, Varric..." Her expression instantly shifted from confused to completely flat. Varric. If he knew she was boarding the ship and decided to come along, it was no coincidence that his magnum opus had wound up in her belongings. He must have sneaked them in while she was out with Taarbas.

Once everything was laid out on her bunk, Marian looked at each in turn and considered the necessity in relation to her goals on this journey. Armor was good in a pinch, especially if they encountered raiders or anything worse. Then again, she wanted nothing given to her by the Kirkwallers, nothing with the taint of that city, and certainly nothing that bore the blood of a thousand deaths that needn't have even happened.

She gathered the sharply angled armor up in her arms and chucked it out the window all at once. She kept the clothing out of necessity, the portraits out of love, and Varric's books out of...out of...she kept them because, despite how ridiculous they were, Varric could spin a damned fine yarn. She also knew that, should they disappear, new copies would only "mysteriously" materialize.

Her family shield was also on the shelf, face-down from where it had come unstrapped from the knapsack. Despite the battles it had come through, the family ties were stronger.

Finished with her purge for the moment, Marian tugged off the linen shirt she had slept in and buttoned on the same blue vest she had worn yesterday. She also found a loose pair of trousers that looked like they had been meant to go with Templar regalia. It wasn't the most ladylike outfit. In fact, when she caught her reflection in a small mirror nailed to the wall, she could have sworn she'd just torn a page from Isabela's personal style guide. Although, given how stuffy it was already feeling in the cabin, the pirate captain probably actually dressed more practically for her chosen life at sea than anyone with landlegs was willing to admit. After running her fingers through her hair to try to remove the tangles, Marian gave up and bound it all up into a bun at the back of her head.

She emerged onto the main deck to a lively clamor of activity. Men climbed all through the rigging to set the sails while some worked from the deck to adjust the tack. Still others moved about, transferring cargo as ballast or applying new layers of tar to lengths of rope. Isabela herself was at the helm shouting back and forth with the sailor in the crow's nest. They were running parallel with the Marcher city of Ostwick and apparently wanted to keep clear of sandbars common to the area.

Swoop was barking from somewhere on the other side of the main mast. When Marian walked over to investigate, she nearly ran headlong into Fenris who was feverishly sparring with Taarbas, the elf with his Sword of Mercy and the Qunari with a bladed quarterstaff of vicious proportions. The mabari was busy nipping at Taarbas' heels, panting from the heat, and wagging his stub of a tail with apparent fiendish joy. Marian leaned against the mast to enjoy the spectacle, none of the trio seeming to notice her presence.

Fenris had activated his lyrium markings, and was dancing around the deck looking like lightning wielding fire. Taarbas, on the other hand, was far more mundane in appearance but was holding his own with no magical embellishments whatsoever. The Qunari was surprisingly agile for his size, easily dodging and parrying Fenris' heavier blows.

Marian was fascinated. She had never seen a Qunari fight with a staff before and couldn't help but be impressed. He twirled the iron rod about with ease and always managed to come at Fenris with the flat of the massive and jagged blade at the end.

"Only until first blood, _karasten_ ," Taarbas shouted over the din of their weapons. "Remember to not let your rage get the better of you!"

"My rage is never in question, brother," Fenris retorted, leaping and taking a mighty swing at his opponent. The glowing blade of his sword connected with the iron shaft in a burst of sparks and ozone.

"You lie. I can smell it on you like a festering wound." Taarbas twisted his staff and spun about, catching the elf's ankle with the butt of his weapon and tripping him. Fenris landed gracelessly on the deck, the air knocked from his lungs and his weapon sent spinning across the smooth wood. His lyrium markings immediately faded as his body deflated with the awareness of the loss.

Swoop lost interest and padded over to his mistress. Marian smiled and idly scratched his head as he sat down and leaned against her leg. "To think," she commented, "I've not even had breakfast, and already a fight broke out." The mabari barked in response, happily wagging his tail and panting.

Taarbas looked over, apparently startled, and quickly sheathed his weapon.

"Serah Hawke," he said with a nod of greeting. "Your companion wished for a _shokana_ , a morning drill. I am no longer _karasten_ , but I saw no reason to deny him."

"You have made no offense," Marian replied, still smiling. "There is no reason for any of us to fall out of practice."

"I fear I had forgotten exactly what I was asking for," Fenris grunted as he got to his feet and retrieved the Sword of Mercy. "It has been so long since I was in Seheron...but not so long since I've faced Qunari." He peered at Taarbas through narrowed eyes. "I must say that I didn't expect to be defeated by a weapon gatherer..."

Taarbas shrugged. "My wounds crippled me. They didn't kill me. I have since needed to learn a way other than the sword. That, my brother, is what you had not anticipated."

"Oh, please, please, _please stop_!" Isabela's voice shouted over all the clamor on deck. Everyone immediately fell silent and spun to look at her.

"No! Oh, no!" she cried out, taking one hand from the helm's wheel and pointing to Fenris and Taarbas. "You don't understand. What I meant was for you to _stop talking_ and _start fighting_. It was such a lovely thing to see," her face took on a dream-like quality, "bodies glistening with sweat in the sun. Especially you, Taarbas. Although, I do believe you glisten anyway." She gave Marian an exaggerated wink.

The Champion quickly turned back around, hoping that her face was merely burning from the already harsh morning sunlight. Fenris rolled his large eyes and shouldered his weapon, sighing heavily. Taarbas looked from Marian to the elf and back again with an unmistakably confused expression.

"The female wishes us to keep fighting because it makes us sweat?"

"The female will probably wish a great many things of you that are ridiculous or against the Qun," Fenris replied casually. "By all means, feel free to ignore her."

Taarbas focused his gaze on Marian. "And this is common of human females?"

"No," the warrior replied quickly. "Just ones named Isabela that like...large things that glisten."


	8. Lessons in the Qun

_Chapter Seven: Lessons in the Qun_

The days that followed were gloriously uneventful. The only reason this was glorious was that Marian did not look forward to being raided by other pirates while she had no armor to speak of. It was rather strange. They had passed a number of other sailing vessels that could have easily overtaken them but had let them sail on unaccosted. When asked, Isabela gave the reason as being this ship was still widely believed to belong to Castillon. It was a rare sea rogue indeed that dared go up against that particular Orlesian, and by the time the ship's newly painted backside was in view, there was no way for the would-be assailants to catch up.

"Don't expect it to last, though," Isabela added. "On our return voyage, we probably won't go a single day without an attempted boarding or bloodshed."

The journey being uneventful did not necessarily equate to it being easy. Isabela ran a surprisingly tight ship, and everyone aboard-trained sailor or otherwise-was expected to pull their weight to keep everything running smoothly. Varric was often up in the crow's nest to keep watch and help navigate. His eyesight was among the sharpest of those aboard. Fenris and Taarbas were used to help adjust the sails and tacking as their weight and strength was a good counterbalance to the force of the wind in the sails. Marian found herself being assigned the position of First Mate, taking charge of operations whenever Isabela needed a break. The sailors were from all over Thedas, but there was not a one among them that had not heard of the Champion of Kirkwall, that she had slain a High Dragon and bested the Arishok at single combat. Her reputation held that she was just and fair. They immediately would leap and set to it if she so much as half-breathed an order.

Free time was most commonly spent in the galley. Sailors at their leisure crowded the tables with mugs of grog and handfuls of cards and dice. Marian also learned it was where Taarbas came with the _viddathari_ for their continued education in the Qun. She had listened in on several occasions while pretending to be more interested in her bowl of steaming gruel that counted for a meal. But after nearly two weeks at sea, she knew that to spend another day pretending that she wasn't interested was only to waste an opportunity. On a day when the weather was too calm for the sails to even capture the slightest wind, Marian made her way to the galley, wove her way through the half-drunk gamblers, and approached the trio of Qunari.

" _Shanedan_ , Taarbas," she said with the now customary nod of reverence. "Might I join in on the lesson?"

The two elves looked from each other to the kossith in relative surprise, but the latter merely looked up at the Champion for a moment in stoic silence. His violet eyes regarded her face and fixed on her own eyes as if through them he could bore a direct path into her soul. When he spoke, his voice was low and rich in such compassion as she had never heard from his kind before.

"To attend this lesson is to seek to understand. It is not merely to understand the Qun but to find your place within it, to live it, to believe it, and to achieve your true purpose. Is that what you seek by asking me this, Serah Hawke?"

As Marian stared back into Taarbas' eyes, the silhouette of the Arishok flashed across her vision. The feeling of conviction she had always felt when he asked something of her or recommended how she should proceed with a task involving Qunari surrounded her heart and exploded like a shot of adrenaline. Never had she felt more justified in her actions, more conscious of a sense of duty to a greater whole. Even when she had stood that final time before Meredith and Orsino, she remembered the Arishok's words echoing through her mind and only then understanding their true meaning.

 _Fixing your mess is not the demand of the Qun! And you should all be grateful!_

Fixing Kirkwall's problems hadn't been her responsibility, either. She'd made them her responsibility merely by trying to regain her family's high status. One act of selfishness turned into a slew of selfish acts until even the selfless intentions couldn't even be separated from the gangrenous whole. She'd thrown the armor received from saving the city out the window like so much poison. She'd kept the _Bassrath-Kata_ , the sword that implied she had a foreign heart of glory, and relished in the status she'd earned with it. _Ben-Hassrath_ , the Heart of the Many, an implication that she stood up unfailingly for the Qunari. The title of Champion was historically always earned with blood and not necessarily nobly or justly. Marian had in fact received it for betraying her own values and intuition.

" _Talan toh ash-eba_."

The Qunari words pouring from Marian's mouth took the two elves by surprise even more than her initial appearance had. Taarbas responded only with a shallow nod and a hint of a smile in his eyes.

"Then, if it is truth that you seek, Serah Hawke, sit. And learn."

They met every day in the mid-afternoon. The elves Taarbas continued to call _viddathari,_ as he knew not what their titles would be until their purposes were determined by the Tamassrans at the colony in Rivain. Marian he called either _Ben-Hassrath_ or _Ashkaari_ , a title that he explained meant "one who seeks". When she asked why he felt so confident giving her titles when he would not for the elves, he merely responded that _basalit-an_ could be observed as having Qunari qualities even if they had not yet dedicated their lives to the Qun.

"For now, _ashkaari_ is temporary. Should you choose to follow the Qun and are brought before the Tamassrans, they might find a more appropriate purpose for you."

Marian learned how Qunari viewed themselves and each other. They were all brothers and sisters in the Qun and lived their lives for the sole purpose of mutual gain. They worked as a cohesive unit, and none was considered more important than any other. For, indeed, could the mind function without the heart? Without the stomach? Could the body move without the feet or grasp without the hands?

Should a Qunari stray from the Qun for selfish reasons, they were given to the Ben-Hassrath for reeducation...which sounded to Marian very like an apostate mage being brought before a Templar justicar...only without the torture and threat of demon possession. The punishment always fit the crime. If a Qunari, male or female, took a lover without sanction to breed or merely for pleasure as _bas_ did, they were removed from the pool of potentials until it was evident they'd abandoned their wantonness. One of the elves, a young man who had turned to the Qun after his betrothed had been murdered by a drunk nobleman, asked why the Qunari did not mate for love or even maintain cohesive family units.

"Qunari are charged to defend the Qun and all those that follow it," Taarbas explained patiently. This was, apparently, a popular question among converts. "To have a family unit as _bas_ do upsets the priority as that smaller unit would come first before one thought of the village or the community or the people as a whole. Such short-mindedness has been the downfall of many nations. It has been recorded by Qunari scholars by observing the nations and empires here...Tevinter, Orlais, Ferelden, the Free Marches. All have known foreign rule time and time again and have never successfully stood against it. The Qunari have never been ruled by _bas_ because we understand that each Qunari- _viddathari_ or true-born, male or female, adult or child, high ranking or low-is as important as any other. We have lost land but never our identity.

"We mate to produce children, but each child is raised communally with every other regardless of parentage. That prevents any single Qunari or couple from defending one child alone or each other alone. To be selfish is to die in body, mind, and soul. _Asit tal-eb_."

"But to not know your family..." the elf breathed. Marian understood his concern. City elves maintained very tight family bonds because that was all they had to cling to. She knew very well of such things herself, but she also could relate to what Taarbas explained next. Your friends and comrades became your family, for the bond formed between brothers and sisters in the Qun was far stronger than any bond of blood. Parents could still disown. Siblings could quarrel. Warriors charged by the Qun to defend each other to the death had no room for such trivial behavior. Even those very different in spirit would never abandon one of their own.

The Qunari knew of love, the deepest expression of which was to declare another _kadan_ , or held close to the heart. Emotional bonds would run deep, especially when there was compatibility of spirit, but there was never a physical need to express it. To understand was enough, and Taarbas regretted that there was no way to tell the _viddithari_ how that felt...merely that they would, indeed, learn on their own.

"And what of war?" Marian found herself asking. "Is it the demand of the Qun to attack those who are not?"

Taarbas shook his head. "It is the demand of the Qun to bring others to the Qun wherever and whenever possible. We have learned that, amongst _bas_ , change is always greeted with defiance and consternation. As _dathrasi_ they only wish to keep things as they are, no matter how miserable it makes them or how wretched. You have witnessed this first-hand in your Kirkwall. The Arishok was not there to convert. Nor was he there to kill. His demand was entirely separate, yet he was seen as the most dangerous of threats. Only you, _Ashkaari_ , understood otherwise."

"But that threat was perceived based on the mutual history of the Qunari and other nations."

"Our histories record that the first _bas_ we encountered here were the _saarabas_ of Tevinter. They were unchecked with no handlers and even other _bas_ feared them. As we were forced to reside where we landed, it became the demand of the Qun to educate those of Tevinter before they destroyed themselves and others."

Marian rested her chin in her hands and smiled whimsically at Taarbas. "Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like the Qunari were doing all of Thedas a favor. Why, then, did every nation revolt? Even enemies of Tevinter came to their aid."

"Dalish stories relate that the Qunari had to fight even to land their ships in Par Vollen," one of the elves claimed in defense. "If they were greeted with violence, the only logical course would be to respond with violence."

Taarbas held up a hand before an argument could break out at the table. "It is not so simple as that, but for a Qunari to be passive is to have no honor. Par Vollen was attacked out of necessity. Tevinter, likewise, became a necessity. For as long as there are those who deny equality, war will always be a necessity. The demands of the Qun are clear."

The smile fell from Marian's face when she realized the truth of those words. No matter how the Qunari came to Thedas, it could not be said that they were wrong in their way of thinking. Every society will fight to preserve what it holds sacred, but the Champion had to admit that, while other nations squabbled with themselves even in times of peace, she had never once heard of a Qunari civil war.


	9. Fighting to Breathe

_Chapter Eight: Fighting to Breathe_

It seemed like they were off the coast of Antiva forever. It had taken them long enough to sail free of Free Marcher seas, and apart from her daily lessons with Taarbas, Marian found herself getting rather bored. She had sparred with Fenris so many times over the past ten years that they had nothing new to learn from each other. Varric refused to try to teach her how to shoot a crossbow because Bianca didn't like other people touching her. Isabela came up with everything she could think of. She used every trick she had at her disposal and would even recruit groups of her sailors to try to give Hawke more of a challenge. The truth was that, after everything she'd come through and with Bassrath-Kata in her hand, Marian was just too experienced a warrior.

Taarbas had watched with some interest, though it took him several days to show it. He still had difficulty accepting that a female could be as good a warrior as her male peers—if not better. That simply wasn't the way of it in Qunari society. Females could never have the same strength or musculature. They could never wield the full _asala_ blades that the greatest of warriors were awarded. But there was one thing he did know that was often a debated issue, particularly between an Arishok and an Arigena. Females could make the best tacticians. He learned by watching Marian Hawke that that was precisely her most redeeming quality in a martial sense, and it was what gave her such an advantage against larger weapons or numerous opponents. She used both sword and shield as extensions of her own body. She used her slighter size and more agile nature in defensive moves that turned out to be as equally offensive. Her opponent often tired three times as quickly as she.

Marian had similar reflexes to Isabela yet could fend off the heavy blows of Fenris without issue. Perhaps, Taarbas pondered, that is what gave her such an edge over the Arishok and his hand-picked warriors. She knew her own strengths and weaknesses. She knew just as well those of her companions. And she knew how to use those against just about anything that would come against her. Besides her status in _bas_ society, having her dedicate her life to the Qun would be a boon none could ignore.

It was not long before Marian challenged him to a duel to first blood. He was honor-bound to accept. She had already fought with both Fenris and Isabela and a handful of the crew. Taarbas took this into consideration as he picked up his bladed staff and slowly circled the woman. Her red hair was still tightly bound away from her face, though several strands had come free in her exertions. Her green eyes looked as though they were on fire. Her chest drew deep breaths but was not heaving with weariness. Drops of sweat glistened at her temples, and her vest was soaked with it down her midriff and back. However, we was not about to assume that she was either tired or merely responding to the heat of the day. Despite being female, Marian was a seasoned warrior, and he would approach this duel accordingly.

He raised his weapon in readiness. Marian brought her shield between them, the blood red blazon on the silver field giving the illusion, just for an instant, that she were kossith in Qunari warpaint.

She came at him in full assault. Shield, sword, shield, twirling on the balls of her bare feet as lightly as if she were only dancing. He deflected her blows easily, but he had to be very careful of the shield. It had its own sharp edge, and it could easily block his view of the far more dangerous sword that he had given the human female himself. He ducked below her final swing with the sword and spun about on one foot, sweeping the other out along with his staff in an attempt to trip her.

It almost worked.

Marian dove over his extended leg and rolled over her shield, barely managing to come back up into a crouch before Taarbas was back on her with a flurry of blows. She kept her shield up as she pushed back to get to her feet and eventually lashed out with her sword. Taarbas stopped his attack only long enough to leap backward out of the way before he lunged at her with the bladed end of his weapon. Marian's shield swept it out of the way with a reverberating clang. The vibration would have been enough to stun any human spearman, but the kossith was beyond the build and stamina of any man.

Taarbas lunged again while her shield arm was still out, and Marian was forced to attempt the block with her sword. They were too close, and it was a last-second move to dive to the side. The blade of the staff caught the shoulder of her vest and tore it but did not draw blood. Lucky.

 _A wound prevents him from being_ karasten, Marian thought to herself. _But he walks with no limp, does not favor one arm or hand over the other. His vision is perfect. What could possibly..._

She allowed him to take the full offensive as she searched for his weakness. The days at sea had worn off his warpaint, and she could see the scars that traced over his chest and shoulders. More were likely on his back, but there would be far fewer. For a Qunari to turn his back to an enemy was to be a coward.

But a rogue might have once gotten through his defenses. To suffer such a wound would not have been seen as running away but to have been ambushed. She had to get a look behind him. A permanent wound was always a sound exploitation point. The muscles were never the same, and the flesh was far weaker. Even if he were still just as strong and capable as he had been before the wound, no Qunari _taam_ would risk any weak link in the chain.

Marian charged and made for a diving roll. She timed it while Taarbas was in the middle of an attack, hoping that he would be unable to recover and turn around before she could spot what she was looking for. When she landed in a crouch, she heard the blade of his staff hit the wood of the deck. She quickly turned her head to take in the scars on his broad back with the precious seconds she had. There, just below the shoulder blade, was what looked like it had once been a vicious stab wound, probably with the serrated blade of an assassin. Such weapons were designed to do more damage being drawn out than thrust in. A wide blade, meaning that it was also long.

 _I'll bet one of the wounds on the front of him came from the same knife...when the point went all the way through him and out the other side._

She swallowed a lump in her throat that came from a sudden feeling of empathy. Such a wound would have killed a human, taking out a lung and possibly some other innards in the process. But a kossith? Marian smiled grimly when she figured it out. All she had to do was tire him. Being down one lung meant that he would wear out twice as quickly as any other kossith Qunari warrior she'd ever fought. The problem with that was that it took them a very long time to wear out...and this was not her first duel of the day.

Marian barely had time to rise to her feet before Taarbas was facing her again, assailing her with blow after blow from his staff. He didn't appear to be tiring at all, and that sheen of sweat Isabela desired so much was hardly making an appearance. Meanwhile, the Champion was beginning to feel a burning in her limbs from the exertion and weight of her sword and shield. She could not afford to wait him out. She had bested other Qunari by preying on their expectation that females couldn't fight. The Arishok had known better and had nearly killed her before she'd simply gotten lucky. Marian hunkered down behind her shield while she pondered her options.

Suddenly, the blows stopped coming. Not even a moment later, a low whistle hailed down from the crow's nest, and Marian could hear the murmur amongst the crew that had apparently distracted Taarbas from their duel.

"Sorry to spoil all the fun," Isabela called down from the helm when Marian looked up at her questioningly. "But we've got company."


	10. Ravenous Crows

Marian rushed to the captain's side on the aft deck to figure out what was going on. There was a furiously determined look on Isabela's face as she maintained her grip on the wheel and listened to whatever Varric reported to her from the crow's nest.

"I should have known better that to think we could bypass Antiva without issue," the Rivaini was muttering to herself.

"What's happening?" Marian shielded her eyes from the sun as she spun to look over the railing of the stern.

"Castillon must have been a real bother to someone in Rialto," Isabela replied. "That sloop's been on our arse since last night, but it hasn't actually tried to catch us until now."

"Tailing us? And you didn't think it odd?"

The pirate captain scoffed. "My dear, we are currently on the most commonly used trade route between Ayesleigh and Amaranthine. There was never a reason to be truly concerned until this blighter dropped full sail and ran up the red flag." She shouted up to Varric to keep watch and notify her of any change in course.

The sailors rushed about on deck, preparing for the absolute worst. The _Hawke's Flight_ had come equipped with two medium ballistae, but they would be of little use against another ship. If the pursuing vessel could not be outrun, they'd have to deal with a boarding. Men hurriedly ran belowdecks to their bunks and came rushing back up with swords and daggers, bows and arrows, crossbows and spears. Fenris came up to the aft deck and stood with Marian and Isabela, the Sword of Mercy strapped to his back and at the ready. Taarbas also eventually joined them to truly see what the fuss was about.

"I never quite understood why _bas_ found it necessary to prey on their own kind," he commented thoughtfully, seemingly unaware of the potential direness of the situation. The pursuing ship was twice their size and could easily carry four times as many men.

"Because it keeps things exciting," Isabela replied with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

"Rivaini, they're gaining!" Varric called down. "And I'd say by the way they're dancing about on deck, they're just hankering for a good time. And by that I mean a very _bad_ time for us."

"Antivan?"

"Worse." Varric's tone suddenly dropped as he let loose a plethora of epithets Marian was glad she couldn't hear. "The red flag bears the symbol of the Crows."

The waiting became horrible. Despite being smaller, _Hawke's Flight_ had too wide of a hull. The Antivan ship was sleeker and had more sail to catch the wind. For several minutes, Marian stood aft keeping watch with the others, listening to her friend at the helm curse about the incompetence of Orlesian shipwrights.

Suddenly, the deck lurched beneath them. Marian grabbed for the railing, but missed, falling into a tangle of limbs with Fenris and Taarbas as the lattermost managed to link his arm around the mizzenmast and keep them all from tumbling overboard. When she was able to look up, the Champion could not believe what she was seeing.

"Why in the Maker's name are we _turning around_?" she shrieked, clumsily regaining her footing and disentangling herself from Fenris' leather strapping.

"That is something I would really like to know, too," Varric called down from where he hugged the main mast. "Survival instincts are telling me that running is definitely better!"

"We can't outrun them," Isabela snarled through gritted teeth. "And you have to admit, Hawke, that we've been through much worse. There are probably around eighty Crows on that ship. I have twenty sailors, an elf with lyrium tattoos, a dwarf with a lovely crossbow, a Qunari, and you. I like those odds."

Marian didn't bother to respond, but instead scrambled to the other side of the ship, practically colliding with the figurehead in order to get a better view of what they were in for. The opposing ship was coming at them with surprising speed, made all the worse by the fact that they were now almost on a collision course. The Crows were clearly visible along the rails, sea assassins not bothering to conceal themselves but loudly vaporing at the top of their lungs. They clashed daggers and swords together to heighten the din, and all that did was make it ever more apparent how deathly quiet the deck of the _Hawke's Flight_ had become.

Mere moments felt like an eternity. A presence was at Marian's shoulder, but she was too focused on trying to figure out how not to die to take notice at first. When she tore her eyes away from the tattooed brigands across the ever-closing gap, she found Taarbas beside her.

"There is one thing I have learned aboard this ship, _basalit-an_. It is that, even though it is operated by _bas_ it still operates as one single entity. Without that cohesion, that unity, no ship could sail. I have found myself impressed with this voyage, seeing that _bas_ truly are capable of such things."

Marian gave a shallow nod in return, her attention back on the Crows who were now less than two hundred yards away. She adjusted her shield on her arm and unsheathed her sword in readiness.

"I'd kill for some _gatlok_ right about now," she muttered. "Isabela might like the daring odds we're about to face, but I don't. I threw my armor into the sea."

"Any female that can slay an Arishok in single combat doesn't need armor," Taarbas returned as he stepped over to the rail that faced the enemy ship. "But I agree that _gatlok_ would be very useful."

There was a shudder and a great groaning noise as the broadsides of the two ships came together. The Crows barely waited for anything more and began diving across the gap. Some fell short and were forced to try to climb aboard, but the end result was that the _Hawke's Flight_ was quickly overrun with a crew made up almost entirely of trained assassins.

An idea suddenly popped into Marian's head, something that just might give them a bit of an edge. She and Taarbas were forward. Fenris and Isabela were aft. Varric was still safely up in the crow's nest firing off Bianca with a rapidity he hadn't had to use in weeks. As the first of the Crows reached them at the bow, Marian moved to the opposite rail as Taarbas.

" _Ataash Qunari_!" she bellowed, coming at the leather-clad brigands with heavy blows from her sword. Taarbas roared and similarly dove into the fray. The Crows immediately hesitated, some even chancing a look around. The ship was full of humans, elves, and the one kossith they could see. There was no way...this could not be a Qunari vessel.

"Fenris!" Marian called, when she saw the Crows push with greater fervor toward Taarbas, thinking him to be the greatest threat. "Fenris _karasten! Teth a, vinek kathas! Anaan esaam Qun!_ "

The elven warrior, his markings brightly glowing, cleaved through two Crows and held his sword aloft in understanding. " _Nehraa kadan!_ " And he dove off the aft castle and into the fray of the main deck.

From that point onward, those that knew the language of the Qunari used it as fluently as possible. Marian's plan completely rested on being able to strike fear into these Crows in making them think they had stumbled upon a Qunari _beresaad_ comprised almost entirely of converts. Varric's bolts were worth three men on the deck, and it wasn't long before Marian felt confident enough to leap from her higher position. Taarbas was shoving four or five Crows at a time over the side with his iron staff, and the Champion even got a chance to see how deadly his weapon really was when he skewered two elves and a human all at once and flicked them into the water as easily as if he were swatting at flies.

She pushed forward, relishing in the thinning numbers of the enemy. She kept her back to the wall of the forward castle so that none could sneak up on her, but it did not allow for a broad enough range of movement. Eventually, she would have to overcome her fear of not having armor, but she really didn't want to risk that on a deck full of Antivan Crows.

"Hawke!"

Isabela's cry cut through the fray as keenly as one of her daggers. For all her dexterity, the pirate captain found herself penned in just below the helm. She was trying desperately to keep the Crows from gaining control of the ship, and the odds weren't working in her favor as much as she'd hoped. Marian quickly looked around her to see if there was anything she could do to even things up a bit. Just off to her left was one of the elven _viddathari_ , valiantly attempting to thin out the enemies surrounding Taarbas.

" _Viddathari_ ," Marian hissed at him. " _Vinek kathas—basra vashedan toh kithshok!_ " She pointed viciously in the direction of the throng about Isabela. Without questioning, even though the captain was far from being an actual _kithshok_ , the elf took aim and let loose a torrent of arrows that freed up the space around Isabela considerably. Those that didn't die soon met their ends at the cold mercy of the pirate's twin daggers.

The battle roiled on. The minutes became interminable as friend and foe alike were felled. Marian did her best to keep track of what was going on across the entire deck, but it became a near impossible task. The Crows refused to give in even to the Qunari ploy and continued to focus most of their efforts on Taarbas but also the Champion herself when they realized it was she truly giving the orders. Eventually, Isabela's crew no longer had the strength to hold out. One by one, they either died or surrendered, and it left an ever-tightening murder of Crows to surround Marian and her companions about the main mast. Varric cursed when he ran out of bolts, and one of the elven _viddathari_ screamed as an assassin's blade sliced open his abdomen.

Crows piled onto Taarbas when they saw how much of an advantage they had, clawing at him, stabbing, and trying to tie him up as bounty. Marian cried out with rage and laid into them, sweeping as many as she could from the pile-up and slashing at those that refused to move. The Qunari roared to his feet and charged into the fray with the bladed end of his staff. Crows, forgetting themselves, fled in terror. Marian chased after him, afraid that he would become too removed from the rest of them.

She only made it halfway.

Her back. She'd forgotten. She'd left herself exposed.

Just as the thought hit her, so did an assassin's blade. She felt the burning fire as the metal sliced into her, the acid tingle as the noxious magic took effect. With a groan, she collapsed to the deck, the last thing she heard was Isabela screaming at her, crying out her name over...and over...

Then, there was naught but darkness.

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	11. Over and Under

"I can't believe that just bloody happened!"

Isabela strained at the ropes that held her tightly to the ship's hull in the brig. The whole lot of them sat—she, Taarbas, Varric, and Fenris—in four inches of stagnant brine. Swoop could be heard howling mournfully from somewhere in the hold above them. He had likely been sealed into a crate given the difficulty he'd given the Crows in capturing him. They were all aboard the Antivan vessel, the _Calabria_ , with the _Hawke's Flight_ in tow as a prize.

"Don't sweat it, Rivaini," Varric replied, trying to sound reassuring. "It's like you said. We've been through worse. I'm sure we'll get out of this somehow."

"But what if Hawke's dead?"

"I doubt it. If they couldn't kill her mabari, they most certainly couldn't kill her. That woman's got fangs more vicious than any war hound." The dwarf winced instinctively as if remembering something quite unsavory.

Taarbas had maintained his silence, bowed over as he was near the prow of the ship where the ceiling was lowest. His horned head nearly rested upon his knees, but he was bound in such a way to make that impossible.

"If she is dead," he rumbled softly, his throat parched from the stuffiness of their quarters and his uncomfortable position, "my duty to the Qun is clear."

"Damn your duty to the Qun!" Isabela snapped. "Unless it involves slaughtering every last Crow on this ship, I don't have the stomach to hear about it."

Taarbas laughed, low and growling. His shoulders shook with the action, and he strained to lift his head to look at the pirate captain.

"Killing them would only be the beginning, _basra_."

Marian came to in a haze. Even as she forced her eyes open, she couldn't see anything but a shadowy blur. She could feel the gentle rise and fall, hear water lapping lazily against wood. She was still aboard one ship or another, and it felt as though they were at anchor. Over several minutes, her vision gradually sharpened. She could see a diffuse light filtering through darkly colored drapes. Dark wooden beams crossed over a whitewashed ceiling. Shelves lined an entire wall and were crammed with books and rolled pieces of parchment. A table practically filled the center of the space and was cluttered with papers, ink, and a few vials of liquid she couldn't quite identify.

She was lying on a bunk, the sheets smooth and the blanket heavy. Her head was comfortably cushioned upon a down pillow, and the linens smelled faintly of lavender and mint. With a wince, she attempted to rise but could not abide the flash of pain that coursed across her lower back. Sighing, she let her body go limp once more into the softness of the bed.

There was no way to tell how much time passed between when she awoke and the moment the door to the cabin opened, but she did not count it as a blessing. A figure entered and lit a lantern hung in the middle of the room and then grinned down at her. Marian couldn't say with any confidence that it was friendly.

"Castillon," she breathed, her weariness almost completely masking her irritation.

"Serah Hawke," he returned, bowing to her politely but his expression not changing. "And here I thought I could never be so lucky. When my men spotted my old ship, I thought it was a convenient twist of fate. When my crew brought both you and Isabela aboard," his smile broadened wickedly, "I realized that the Maker must truly love me. Truly. For he brought both my nemesis and her enabler so easily back into my hands."

"Not so easily as that," Marian grunted as she tried to prop herself up on her elbows and rise.

Castillon tutted at her, waggling a finger mockingly. "I wouldn't recommend that, my dear." He turned to pour himself a glass of what appeared to be wine. "My assassin struck nothing vital, but you'll be very unsteady on your feet until that deeproot poison wears off." His eyes continued to smile at her over the rim of his goblet.

Marian collapsed back, tears of frustration forming in her eyes. She could _not_ be here. There was no way she was actually completely helpless and in the possession of Castillon, no less. _We should have killed him when we had the chance_ , she steamed. _Damn it all, Isabela. How could we have been so blind!_

"So, you're going to let me heal before you kill me?" she asked, attempting a sneer but fairly certain she was failing.

Castillon shook his head and set his drink down on the table. "Not at all, serah. You are much more valuable to me alive than dead. You see, I _do_ have a legitimate face in society to maintain. When word came through saying that the Viscountess of Kirkwall had gone missing—kidnapped by pirates, no less—I saw it as a prime opportunity to...return a favor." He sat down at the edge of her bunk as if she were a sick child and he the caretaker. "You see, my dear, the Prince of Starkhaven is intent on making anyone so honest as to return you intact very, very wealthy indeed. You allowed me to walk away when you had the prime opportunity to completely destroy me. Consider this me repaying the debt."

Marian lay there, immobilized by anger, as the smuggler ran a calloused hand along her cheek in a mockingly loving fashion. He then chuckled as if to a private joke, stood, and left the cabin without another word. She heard a latch lock behind him.

Not long after Castillon left, Marian heard seven bells sounded. It did little to tell her the time, but it did make her realize that the watch would soon be changing. If there was anything she'd learned aboard Isabela's ship, it was that timing was everything. In half an hour, the shift would change. That could be her only time to get anywhere unnoticed. No one would suspect her to be up and about in her apparent condition.

The only problem was actually being able to get up and move around with the wound in her back that, upon the inspection she could manage, included her front as well. She could feel rather than see the tight stitchwork just under her right rib, and she inhaled a deep breath just to make sure she didn't suddenly have something else in common with her friend Taarbas.

Both lungs filled with air. Good. It hurt like the flames, but it was the best sensation she'd had since waking.

With a painful lurch and a wave of vertigo, she threw off the blankets and awkwardly swung her legs over the side of the bed. The smugglers had at least left her her clothes, which was a blessing no matter how one looked at it. She ignored the pain blazing through her as she forced herself upright, one hand pushing against the bunk while the other held onto her head. She winced as if her skull were going to implode upon itself, her vision spinning.

Deeproot poison...what worked against deeproot poison in a pinch? Forcing her eyes to focus, she took another look around the room, paying particular attention to the bottles and vials of liquids on the table and shelves. The only thing she saw that was even remotely familiar or trustworthy was a vial of lyrium, placed with a few others of its kind near to the wine. Marian hesitatingly got to her feet and cautiously staggered across the small space.

"Trust an Antivan to spike his drinks with this," she murmured to herself, a playful smile trying to make an appearance through the pain. "But in the hands of a Templar...it's so much more invigorating." Not wasting another breath, she uncorked the vial and downed the glowing blue contents in a single gulp. She winced at the powerful tingle, like ten thousand tiny bubbles were coursing down her throat in a mad rush. There was a moment when it warmed her stomach. Then, barely two minutes later, she felt the warm adrenaline-like rush flow through every limb. It numbed her back and dulled her bruises. Corking the bottle and setting it back where she had found it, she silently made her way toward the door.

Through a small window, she could see what Crows were on watch wandering about the deck. It looked to be the middle of the night, and so they were more lax in their duties, pausing frequently to share a swig and chat. Lights could be seen in the openings that led belowdecks, and there was the very faint sound of music and carousing. It looked to be as prime an opportunity as ever, giving her this half-hour plus however long it took to change the watch.

The problem was the door being locked from the outside with a key. A key Castillon very likely kept on his person.

To break the glass of the window in the door or even to attempt to pry open the latch would make far too much noise. She hadn't the skill to pick a lock, and it was a very rare ship for the captain's cabin to have an access to the lower decks.

"All the best-laid plans..." Marian sighed. She needed to figure out what the lesser evil was. And even if she got outside...what then? She had no weapons and was in no condition to fight. She couldn't pretend to be anyone else.

But she was trained as a Templar. And she had just drunk an entire vial of lyrium. If nothing else, she had the raw power of her will, and that would carry her for quite some time. The only trick was how to turn it completely to her advantage.

Marian began to break things. Shrieking at the top of her lungs and throwing herself against the confining walls, she grabbed whatever the could and tore or shattered it, however she could make noise the very loudest. She screamed obscenities as she threw a bottle of ink. She sang nonsense songs as she downed another vial of lyrium and poured more into a bottle of Antivan brandy. Then, when those outside and below had clearly begun to take notice, someone even having the nerve to bang on the door, she squealed in feigned delight and threw the bottle of alcohol directly into the lantern Castillon had left burning.

There was an explosion of flame, and the scattered papers began to catch and smolder. Marian continued her dance of insanity as bodies thrust themselves against the door in an attempt to break it down. _To the Void with subtlety and shadows_ , the thought almost gleefully to herself. _This will make me feel so much better._

There was a loud thud and a grunt against the door. Then another thud and a loud crack. The next thud brought with it the splintering of wood and an avalanche of Crows as they poured into the room, tumbling over each other in an attempt to find out what was going on. Marian allowed them only enough time to collect themselves and come fully into the room. They surrounded her in confusion and accusation, panicking over the mess, and some tried to put out the fire.

Marian laughed.

"So very nice to see you, boys," she said with a sweet, sweet smile. Her eyes began to glow a brilliant, electrifying blue, and she stood up as straight as she could. Before any of the Crows could get near enough to lay a solid hand on her, that light exploded from her with such force that all were thrust backward.

When Marian's eyes readjusted to the dim lighting, she saw that her plan had worked as best as it could. A couple of the smugglers were already beginning to recover, so she didn't waste any time. She bolted from the room and headed belowdecks. She didn't go to where the lights and singing had been. Instead, she swung herself down into the cargo hold and scuttled along through the darkness until she found the best hiding spot she could. They would search the ship. She knew this, and it really didn't give her much time. But she had to figure out where Castillon would send whom. Skulking about in the dark was not her strength. Bludgeoning people to death was.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, I guess," she muttered as she drew her knees against her in the shelter of a large crate and several barrels full of what could only be last week's fish.

There was a whimper and soft scratching from within the crate. Startled, Marian twisted her head and pressed her ear against the coarse wood.

"Swoop?"

There was a sharp bark followed by more forceful scratching. Marian smiled. Skulking in the dark was one thing. A war-trained mabari was the familiar bludgeoning factor she so craved.

"Sit still, boy," she whispered and slowly got to her feet, peering about the dim quarters for anything she could use to pry open the crate. She found a broken pair of manacles close by, the curve giving her just enough leverage to break her hound free of his confining prison.

He bolted out in a flash, barking and howling in a murderous timbre as he bounded up the steep stairs at the far side of the hold.

"Go on, boy," Marian breathed with a wicked grin. "Go play. Have fun."


	12. Friends and Freedom

Fenris kept an ear tilted upward while the others struggled to get free of their bonds. There was quite the commotion above decks, and the mabari had definitely gotten free. But the noise and confusion didn't sound like a fight of any kind. It sounded more urgent. The intervening wood muffled the sound too much for the elf's keen ears to make out what was being shouted back and forth.

Isabela and Varric had been struggling against their bonds since the noise began. Both rogues figured that, no matter what was going on above, it was the perfect opportunity to try to make a break for it. Only Taarbas sat unmoving, but he was no more ignorant of the situation. He, too, was listening very intently, but not for the same thing as the others.

"We have company," he said lowly, tilting his head up as far as it would go. Everyone stopped what they were doing, held still, and listened. There was the sound of someone lightly descending the ladder into the hold. A small grunt and a curse. And then there was the definitive shuddering thud of someone trying to batter the door down with something large and solid.

It didn't take long. The wood of the brig's door was damp and partially rotted from all the brine, and it was only a minute or two before a barrel came flying into the room, exploding in a shower of half-rotten fish. The companions all crouched in on themselves, hoping against hope to not become covered.

"Well, don't all thank me at once." Marian stepped into the room, her hands firmly braced against her hips and a stern look on her face. "I'm only cheating death to get the lot of you out of here."

"By the spirits, Hawke," Isabela sighed in relief. "We were worried that you were dead!"

"You were worried, Rivaini," Varric replied matter-of-factly as Marian began to slice through their bonds with a makeshift shiv. "I told you this woman was far too tough for that shit."

"Taarbas said he was going to kill everyone on board if you were dead," the pirate captain went on, trying to save face.

Marian smiled up at the Qunari as she cut through the much thicker coils of rope holding him. "Would that have been your duty, Taarbas?"

He nodded. "You risked your life for mine, _Ben-Hassrath_. All of theirs would have been forfeit."

Isabela got to her feet as best she could, rubbing at the burns on her arms from the coarse rope that had held her. Varric and Fenris also stood and tried vainly to get fish bits off their clothing. Marian helped to guide the kossith from his cramped position over to where the ladder was. It was the only spot in the cramped space where he could almost attain his full height.

"So, what happens now?" Isabela asked. "All our weapons are still on _Hawke's Flight_ where they made us drop them. We're going to have to cause a diversion to be able to sneak off."

Marian pointed to the decks above. "Already done. I sort of started a fire in Castillon's cabin, and Swoop is up there somewhere romping about and having a good time."

"Castillon!"

"I knew we should have killed that son of a-" Varric was too annoyed to even finish the thought.

Isabela spun on Taarbas, getting her face as much up in his as possible. "I don't care that Hawke is alive," she said, her voice nearly a snarl. "Thanks to Castillon, your Arishok held me responsible for the Tome of Koslun going missing. I want him dead. I want them _all_ dead."

Taarbas peered down at Isabela, his stony countenance mirroring hers. "The thief wishes to regain her honor?"

"Yes," the pirate rogue responded with a conviction Marian never thought she would hear. "The thief wishes to regain her honor."

"Then it is done." Without another word, Taarbas turned and ascended the ladder to the cargo hold. The other companions more hesitatingly followed suit.

When they emerged into the hold above, they could tell that the Crows were, indeed, panicking over the presence of a fire on board. Marian could smell the smoke and see flames though the hatch above licking at the wood of the aft castle. There were splashes of water, screams to pump bilge water onto the deck, anything to douse the growing inferno.

Taarbas did not bother to pause longer than a moment to assess the situation. He didn't even check to make sure the others were behind him. Instead, he made for the stairs to the upper decks with long strides, forcing everyone to practically run to keep up. The stairs brought them into the abandoned galley. Dice games lay forgotten. Food went uneaten. Varric and Isabela gave each other knowing glances and quickly set about gathering up any loose coins or valuables. The Qunari halted at the steps leading up to the main deck, holding his hand out to have the others wait.

Swoop's barking was loud. Marian even saw him run past, hot on the heels of a Crow as he tried to not spill any water from his bucket while avoiding being bitten. The woman let out a low, trilling whistle, and the barking immediately changed to one less menacing and more playful. Moments later, the mabari came dashing down the stairs, panting and licking happily at his mistress's hands.

"I count twenty men," Taarbas said lowly. "We thinned their numbers significantly during the battle. There are some more laid out, unmoving, over there. "He pointed to an area near the forecastle. Marian had to climb a couple of the steps to see what the Qunari meant.

"That's probably the result of my...episode," she replied, ducking back down as more Crows dashed by. "I pretended to be mad to get out of the cabin, set fire to it, and had to smite them when they had me surrounded."

"That's my Hawke," Varric murmured with pride. "Half-dead and still able to dish it out where deserved."

Marian smiled tightly. "Castillon had enough lyrium to fuel a mage. I'm afraid it's the only thing keeping me on my feet, so don't expect a repeat performance."

Taarbas took only another minute to observe before he turned back to the group. His words were quick and sharp, and it was obvious that he was not about to repeat himself. "The elf and I will go aft. That is where the majority of _bas_ are collected. Thief, your prey is near the prow, like a coward. Kill him or lose all honor. Serah Hawke, you must get back to your ship with the dwarf. If there is a skeleton crew, your hound should make short work of them." He nodded to Swoop in a gesture that could only have been one of utmost respect. The hound responded with a sharp bark and a vigorously wagging tail.

He turned back to the stairs and appeared to be counting down. Then, the Qunari sprung forth with a resounding battle cry, Fenris close behind him, markings glowing. Isabela was far more silent when she emerged, waiting long enough for the two warriors to attract all the attention before she bolted for the forecastle and the surprised Castillon.

Marian and Varric waited still longer to make sure a path was clear to one of the longboats before they made a run for it. They quickly dove inside and let loose the pulley system. There wasn't time to gradually let themselves down, and they hit the water with a massive splash that soaked them through to the bone. Swoop was smart enough to keep quiet as they rowed away. Marian found herself torn between reaching their destination in a timely manner and worrying about her friends who had leaped into battle weaponless. Varric caught her gnawing at her lip.

"Give them five minutes, Hawke," he said, confidence in his voice that he wasn't sure he really felt. "They'll be in a boat and joining us before you know it."

The _Hawke's Flight_ was only a hundred yards or so off the stern of the _Calabria_ , but it felt like ages before they got there. Neither Marian nor Varric could see anyone aboard, and Swoop sniffed the air curiously but gave no negative reaction. They drew up along the starboard side out of view and helped each other climb aboard. The mabari had to practically claw his way up over the side without the others having the strength or height for leverage, but he managed.

From their new vantage point, the human and dwarf could see the extent the fire had spread across Castillon's ship. It had dropped to one of the lower decks and was billowing smoke hundreds of feet into the air. Varric lightly touched Marian on the arm to get her attention.

"We're down a longboat," he said. "That's lucky."

"They must have gone back to their ship to help put the fire out." Marian believed in her observation but still felt it a necessity to search the ship.

There were no bodies leftover from the previous battle. Blood had soaked into the deck and dried, but anything that could have caused a stink or the spread of disease had long since been thrown overboard. The captain's cabin was locked up, but Varric made short work of that. Everything they'd had of value on board that hadn't already been in the cargo hold was stuffed inside. Hawke found her sword and shield. The dwarf found Bianca. The weapons of the others were there, too, and even some belonging to the fallen.

A deeper search led them to the dozen or so surviving sailors, shackled to the walls mid-decks like slaves being sent off to market in Tevinter. Marian and Varric wasted no time in getting them free, the men all expressing their gratitude and concern over the situation. Their voices became a mighty din as they all tried to explain what happened to them after the captain and her companions were taken off to the other ship. When the Champion told them of what was currently happening, the men all made a mad rush up to the main deck, getting things in order to have the ship ready to sail on its own again.

"So...what are they doing?" Varric asked, a little uncertain of what the sailors apparently knew but he didn't.

"They're going to get their captain back," Marian replied, a smug look on her face. "One way or another."


	13. Kadan

"Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great pleasure that I introduce to you Vice and Villainy."

With her particular finesse, Isabela drew forth a pair of long daggers and spun them about before presenting them to Marian hilt-first.

It had been a very long night. The _Hawke's Flight_ had been guided up to the _Calabria_ as close as it could safely come, the sailors shouting out their captain's name as they watched her face off against Castillon alone. She had begun the duel unarmed, but it was rumored that Isabela was so good at her craft, the Hero of Ferelden had once sought her out for lessons. It was not long before Castillon was dead, slain by his own weapons.

"It was messy," Isabela admitted as the Champion inspected the two ornate blades with a keen interest. "If Fenris hadn't stopped me from crushing the blagard's face in, I'd have been burnt to a crisp and gone down with that bloody ship."

Marian looked up at her friends from where she sat on her bunk. Fenris and Taarbas stood behind Isabela with satisfied yet weary expressions. All three were covered from top to toe in soot but appeared otherwise none the worse for wear. Word had it that the Champion had passed out again when the effects of the lyrium rush wore off and had missed Castillon's ship exploding in the middle of Rialto Bay and going down with all hands. The course was smartly set for Llomerryn where Isabela hoped to make berth for repairs and to replenish the ranks.

Llomerryn, a den of thieves if ever there was.

The Champion passed Isabela's new weapons back to her with a nod of approval. "They're definitely of a fine make. Orlesian, perhaps?"

"Most likely. Such was Castillon's passion." The pirate deftly sheathed the daggers behind her. "And I don't know about anyone else," she said pointedly over her shoulder, "but I could really use a bath. A bit of a good dunking over the side if there would be anyone so kind as to draw me back in."

Fenris gave Marian a bit of a helpless expression before he shrugged and followed the captain out onto the main deck.

"I would also like to cleanse myself," Taarbas stated when the others were gone. "I require no more than a bowl of water."

Marian gestured to the washbasin that sat beneath the mirror on the far wall. It had been freshly filled for her that morning, but she had yet to move from the bed. All of her muscles ached. She was also feeling her stab wound much more keenly, though she could safely say the wooziness from the deeproot poison was gone. In its place, her head pounded from the lyrium withdrawal. Her face dropped into her hands.

The Qunari went to the washbasin and dipped in a linen cloth that hung from a ring. He set to scrubbing the soot from his arms and face before he moved to his chest. The water turned to a dingy gray within the confines of the white porcelain, and he paused a moment to watch it swirl. If a thought had struck him, it was forgotten instantly...some significance of water, or a metaphor unremembered. He shook his head and continued washing, reaching behind him as best he could to get the soot and blood from his back. It was a futile endeavor. He stared long at the washcloth and water that time, fully aware of what he was thinking. He did not want to ask what he was about to, but he had no choice.

"Serah Hawke," he said, not bothering to turn, "it shames me to ask a favor of you."

Marian looked up at him as he leaned against the small table the basin sat upon. She was bleary-eyed but alert enough.

"What is it?"

Taarbas alternated between grinding his teeth and mashing his lips together, vividly uncomfortable with himself. "I can't reach...my back. Could you assist?"

The Champion laughed, mirth cutting through any pain she felt with the realization that Qunari could be just as helpless as anyone else. She gave her affirmative and rose, taking the cloth from him and beginning to clean the grime from his middle back and spine. She was careful when it came to his scar. He tensed whenever she came near it, and she realized then that it had to still pain him, even if only mentally.

"If I may ask," she said around his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of his face in the mirror, "why does asking me this shame you? I can't think of anyone that can do this alone."

Taarbas let out a growling sigh. He was apparently still warring with himself over even involving her. "To wash another Qunari is...is the task of a child. It is they who cleanse the warriors after battle, the women after childbirth, and all the others after their labors. It teaches them humility and obedience." He raked a hand through his long, white hair. "For me to ask you this is to demean you. And I truly mean no disrespect. It would otherwise be tasked to the _viddathari_ , but I have since learned that they are both dead."

Marian paused what she was doing, the hand holding the cloth resting in the small of his back and her other gently upon his shoulder. He was positively quaking, with rage or embarrassment, she knew not which. She softly cleared her throat.

"You don't demean me," she replied quietly. "I am helping a friend as my friends have helped me. That is not to take away respect but to give it."

Taarbas' let out a long breath of air and seemed to deflate before her eyes. After, his breathing came easier and he seemed to be calmer. Marian bit at her lip and continued with her task, slowly reaching around him to rinse the washcloth before attacking a particularly stubborn smear of what she hoped was someone else's blood.

"You call me friend."

"Should I not?"

She could see Taarbas smile a little through his reflection in the mirror.

"It gives me honor, for you are _kadan_ to me, _ashkaari_. Through you, I see hope for the other _bas_ in this world."

Finished, Marian rinsed the cloth one last time before hanging it up to dry. "I fear that even when _bas_ are offered a true paradise, they will eternally squabble over it. I believe that it is simply not within human nature for them to perfectly embrace such things as the Qun."

"And yet you try."

The woman quickly turned her gaze to the floor, concentrating hard on her toes in an attempt to figure out exactly what her stance actually was. She had thrived when following orders from the Arishok, enjoyed every lesson she'd attended with Taarbas. She believed more than she ever thought she could that she had finally found something that suited her, that left her fulfilled...that gave her life some sort of tangible meaning. But when she realized that Taarbas was still standing so close, her cheeks burned, and she quickly turned away.

"You should...set about your duties on deck," she stated quickly, her voice cracking with emotion. "I need my rest."

The Qunari made no response. He merely walked out the door and closed it easily behind him.

Hawke collapsed to her knees, one hand clinging to the wash table for support. Her breath came in strangled sobs as another wall she'd built about her heart broke and washed away in a tide of impossible hopes and aspirations.


	14. Llomerryn

The wind was blessedly in their favor for the next couple of days, bringing the _Hawke's Flight_ within sight of the smuggler city of Llomerryn in record time. Isabela hoisted the black flag of the Raiders to ensure safe passage into the harbor and had the crew rushing around to prepare. Everyone was exhausted. They had exactly enough bodies to operate the ship, if not efficiently, and it had taken its toll. There were even a couple of times where the captain had fallen asleep at the wheel. They would have ended up meandering back south if it weren't for Fenris and his ability to operate on very little rest.

Marian made ready to go ashore as the ship pulled further into the docks. She ended up borrowing some clothes of Isabela's: a short-sleeved white blouse, black corset, and dark leather boots that came to her mid-thigh. Not wanting to _completely_ be like her friend, she managed to find a knee-length skirt she'd managed to hold onto since Ferelden. She tucked the sides of the skirt up into her belt to have some makeshift pockets and bound her hair up into a modest bun. It was rather strange, seeing herself actually look feminine for once, but she couldn't exactly say that she minded it.

The others were on the main deck waiting for her. Isabela grinned at her brightly, the wind blowing her deep chestnut hair around her face. She was wearing her signature blue scarf, but she was displaying decidedly less jewelry. Fenris looked the same as always in his dark leather, but his sword was nowhere to be seen. Taarbas was only in black linen trousers and boots with a heavy bronze torc about his neck. There was no sign of warpaint, no adornment to give his rank. He almost looked Tal-Vashoth.

"Where's Varric?" Marian asked, looking about curiously for the dwarf who had always insisted on going everywhere she did.

Isabela jerked a thumb in the direction of the forecastle. "He said he wanted to dig a few things out of storage, act like he's here to sell a few things on the black market."

"And will he? I mean, does he actually have anything to sell on the black market?"

"Who knows? Apart from a crate full of those books of his, I'm really not sure. Maybe something from Bartrand's estate?"

"If I see _any_ red lyrium, I'm hanging him up by his-"

"Easy there, Hawke," Varric called out as he emerged from belowdecks. There was a sizeable chest in his arms but nothing he couldn't carry alone. "Some of this might be illegal, but I can assure you that none of it is dangerous. We need the coin, but we don't need to end up dead." He set the chest down when he came to stand with the others and put his hands on his hips. "Well, don't you look pretty?"

Marian narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "Don't you start."

"No, really! You shine up like a new sovereign. Rivaini, how in the world did you get her to wear a skirt?"

"I didn't," Isabela replied innocently. "I only gave her the blouse and boots."

The group spent the next half hour discussing their plan of action as the ship made berth, pulling up quayside some distance from the main body of the docks. They had decided on a stay of no longer than a week, just long enough to rest up, resupply, and find a few more trustworthy hands to get them the rest of the way north. Taarbas was insistent that they sail directly to Kont-Aar rather than heading overland from Ayesleigh. Isabela couldn't object. It kept them well out of the way of any more Antivans.

In the meantime, they had two definite choices: put up at an inn in town or stay on the ship. The general consensus was to find a half-decent inn. Even Fenris, who normally didn't care where he slept, was getting tired of such close quarters.

"You snore," he grumbled to Varric when the dwarf began to make light of his vote.

"I do not," came the retort. "I merely breathe heavily when I'm feeling claustrophobic."

"Ah, so that's what it is, then. All the more reason to get you a bigger room of your own—on land."

The matter was settled. When the _Hawke's Flight_ finally came to a stop and was tied down to the pier, the group descended to the dock below and began to make their meandering way to the nicer part of town. It didn't take long for Marian to realize that, in Llomerryn, "nicer" was relative. A lot of things were relative. Everything appeared shady. Even the wealthy elite that milled around the marketplace had an air about them that told her they had earned their money via underhanded means and didn't actually have a drop of nobility in their veins.

No one seemed to care that a kossith was with them. Marian had to admit that she found it a bit odd, especially with everywhere else she'd been and what she'd come through. After their third seedy tavern looking for appropriate lodging, she finally asked him about it.

"Many Tal-Vashoth go to work with smugglers. They make excellent mercenaries, guards. I apologize, but for your safety, _kadan_ , I must behave like them."

"For _my_ safety? What about yours?"

He clenched his hands into fists so tightly that veins popped out all along his arms.

"Oh. Right."

"This is also neutral territory of sorts," Isabela said, butting in. "Not only can pretty much all smugglers make berth here—so long as they're on the right side of the Raiders—but it's fairly cosmopolitan. Rivaini, Antivans, Orlesians, Qunari...you name it, no matter how odd, you'll probably find them here. Oh, look!" She pointed excitedly to a building up the street that was as tumbledown as any other, but had a freshly whitewashed front and a large sign of a griffon above the door.

"Well, that looks promising," Varric commented as he adjusted his grip on the chest. He was really getting tired of carrying it.

Fenris paused and gave the sign a hard look. "Doesn't the griffon have something to do with the Wardens, usually? Do they have a stake in this place as well?"

Isabela made a bee-line for the building, clearly an inn from the music and carousing that came pouring out the door at them.

"It has something to do with the fourth Blight, I believe," she commented as she motioned everyone to follow her inside. "I've stayed here before. The food's not so bad; the drinks are amazing; and the live entertainment is usually worth seeing at least once."

"What about the sleeping arrangements?" The elf seemed genuinely concerned about that particular situation.

"That depends on how crowded it is. Naturally. If nothing else...the beds are big?" She winked at Fenris with a huge grin before she wove gracefully through the main room to where the innkeep manned the bar.

The rest of them decided to find themselves a table where they could all have a seat. The closest they came was a small, round affair made from a converted barrel. The chairs were, likewise, converted barrels, and there weren't quite enough of them. Varric and Fenris talked lowly about how Hawke should have her own seat, being a lady and all. Taarbas took a glance around the room and decided that chivalry was most certainly dead here.

"We don't want to draw attention, and being...honorable...will draw attention." The Qunari plopped himself down on one of the barrels and pointed for the elf and dwarf to do the same. Marian, he roughly grabbed around the waist and dragged to sit on his knee.

"What are you doing?" she shrieked in surprise.

The table next to them was crowded with men playing a dice game. A couple of them turned around to have a look, laughing and pointing as soon as they saw Marian struggling against her significantly larger companion. One got the attention of a man next to him, a tall fellow with sawed-off horns. He, too, turned to see, golden eyes laughing over the rim of his ale tankard.

"Having problems with your woman?" he called over. He spoke the common tongue flawlessly.

"Aye," Taarbas replied, altering his tone just enough to make it sound like he'd been long away from Par Vollen. "Human females, you just can't control them." He wrapped Marian in his other arm as well and held her more tightly to him. "Keep struggling," he whispered to her. "And know I do all this against my better nature."

"I understand that," she hissed back, "but could you at least let me breathe?"

Before he could respond, the Tal-Vashoth from the dice table stepped over, looking down at Marian and taking in every feature of her from the texture of her hair to the size of her feet. He reached out a hand and grabbed the bun of her hair, tilting her head back almost painfully against Taarbas' shoulder.

"Surely you could do better, brother," he chuckled. "Younger and more fair. This one's built like she works the fields." He swirled the drink around in his tankard. Varric and Fenris both eyed him up extremely warily. "For twenty silvers, I could take her off your hands and you could get yourself the best night of your life with a lady of the house." He gestured with his head over to the far wall where a group of women huddled around three men who had obviously come into some wealth recently, the coins burning through their pockets.

Taarbas appeared to consider the offer, looking over at the women thoughtfully then turning his head just enough to breathe in the aroma of Hawke's hair. She paused a moment, a look of total confusion on her face before she remembered she was supposed to be the damsel in distress.

It was a very alien concept to her.

The Qunari shook his head. "I like the challenge this one brings," he said to the other kossith. "There's a certain satisfaction to be had in...breaking something." He grinned, a horrible grin exposing a number of large white teeth that even made Varric gulp.

The Tal-Vashoth threw back his thick mane of white hair and laughed heartily. "I like you," he stated brightly and slapped his hand heavily down on the table. "Costa! Ale for this table, on me! Make it good, none of that swill you've been serving lately."

Marian was hoping that would be the end of it. When she looked across the table to Varric and Fenris, she could tell that they wished for the same. It wasn't to be, however. Instead of returning to his dice game, the Tal-Vashoth swung over a chair between Marian and Fenris and made himself as comfortable as possible.

"They call me Rothgar," he said. His voice was boisterous, and the Champion could smell more than a little alcohol sweating out his pores. "I've no idea what it means, but I like the sound of it. What of you, brother? Have you given yourself a name, or did you keep that rank foolishness?" He drained his tankard and held it out again hungrily when the serving wench came by. She set out drinks for everyone, and Rothgar gave her a healthy pinch on the behind as she walked away.

Taarbas took a swig of the drink then quickly turned to spit it onto the floor. He never could abide alcohol. "Armaas," he choked. "What is this... _shit_?" He fought for the word, but his utter disgust for the drink gave him the perfect cover.

Varric quickly leaped in, seeing that the story was going to need as much embellishing as possible if they were to potentially fool a Tal-Vashoth for the week. He drank from his own tankard, then, likewise, spat it over his shoulder. "Shit! That's hardly the word for it. Why...if I didn't know better, I'd say this was darkspawn piss someone thought to barrel up." He glowered meaningfully at Rothgar. "This is the best, you said?"

Fenris maintained his silence and his steady gaze on the situation with Marian. He very subtly pushed his tankard away from him a little bit at a time, the rest of his body unmoving.

Rothgar looked hard at Varric, his eyes narrowing although not in a menacing way. It was more like he was trying desperately to get his eyes to focus. He turned to take in Fenris, then looked back to Varric.

"You travel with a dwarf?" he asked Taarbas. "Never saw one of his kind 'round here. At least not one dressed so fine."

Varric took that opportunity to do what he did best: talk. He leaped into a verbose monologue about how he'd once belonged to a wealthy merchant family in Orzimmar but had been disowned due to a horrid gambling habit. He used an effective woe-is-me tone when he went on at length about how his choices had eventually become exile or to join the Legions of the Dead. Having a distinct aversion to the sight of blood, he naturally chose exile, where he eventually ran into his friend, the elf conveniently seated next to him. They had many exciting adventures together, not the least of which was somehow escaping the deadly clutches of an ogre after having been chased out of a dragon's cave by its owner. Their latest escapade involved finding the Jewel of Amaranthine, a prize of untold wealth (and the best-kept secret of the noble family of Howe). It was last seen in the clutches of the Dread Pirate Roberto, who had sailed north into Antivan waters.

"And don't forget the slaves," Fenris nudged him. "You know...the elven slave girls Roberto was paid handsomely for for delivery to Tevinter."

Varric slammed his tankard down on the table, pale golden liquid sloshing everywhere. "I was getting to that!" he exclaimed, taking another swig and spitting it out again. "My friend here is obsessed—I mean _obsessed—_ with freeing slaves. Especially pretty, young elven ones with curves and eyes that could make you melt just by looking at you." He batted his own eyes in an exaggerated fashion then gave Fenris a wink. It could have been better, but at least the moody elf was actually _trying_.

Rothgar had listened attentively to the dwarf's story, a larger and larger grin growing on his face the bigger the story became. He looked from Varric to Taarbas with excitement shining in his eyes.

"This sounds like quite the expedition!" he exclaimed. "No matter how strange, you certainly do know how to pick your friends, Armaas." He drained another tankard and drunkenly hollered out for more. And then shouted again when a barmaid did not immediately materialize.

"Aye," Taarbas replied. "A very expensive expedition." He looked at Varric curiously, unsure if such a story would actually help or merely land them in deeper trouble.

"You see," Varric continued, not caring about the Qunari's obvious concern, "we're—well, I'm here looking for investors."

Marian groaned loudly. The men all twisted to look at her, and she quickly turned her disdain for the term "investors" into another struggle to free herself from Taarbas' firm grasp. Naturally, he didn't relent, but at the very least, she could say with certainty that he wasn't actually hurting her.

Rothgar appeared to sober enough at the sound of a business proposition. "How much?" he asked.

The dwarf shrugged. "Oh, given the crew we'd have to hire, the supplies, skilled warriors to fend off any smugglers we'd encounter...a hundred sovereigns should just about cover it."

It was Rothgar's turn to spit out his drink. Although, he hadn't bothered to turn like the others. Varric and Fenris both winced in disgust as rancid ale came spraying at them. Taarbas deftly covered Marian's face to shield her from what he perceived as an insult.

"A hundred sovereigns is a king's ransom," the kossith stated flatly. "Where is anyone around here going to come up with that kind of coin?"

Varric threw up his hands in feigned frustration. "And, here, I thought we'd come to an island city of die-hard sea rogues and dastardly thieves. In fact, I thought I saw a smartly dressed gentleman out front. I'm fairly sure he'd have the sort of coin we need..." He pretended like he was going to get up and leave.

"Wait! Wait, just...wait." Rothgar unsteadily held out a hand and wobbled his way onto his feet. "I give you fifty sovereigns now...and the rest once we find the gem."

The master storyteller shook his head, a grim smile plastered on his face. "One hundred up front or no deal. If we only have half from you, that means we have to find _yet another_ party to split the take with."

"And when I get the money? Where can I find you?"

"Relax, kossith," Varric said in his friendliest tone. "I'll find you. I'm good at things like that."

Happy that they'd reached an accord, Rothgar took his ale tankard and staggered back over to his friends at the dice table. They welcomed him back into the game readily and, after he said something lowly to them, they cheered loudly as if he had just solved all their troubles.

"Yeah," Varric muttered after watching them for a minute or two. "Let's find Isabela and get out of here. Or at least to our rooms. Somewhere we can lock the door would be nice.


	15. A Place to Rest

Isabela had not been hard to track down. She was still over at the bar, chatting and laughing and getting herself drunk with a couple of sailors who were standing a little too close. When she saw her friends approach, Varric in the lead and Taarbas literally dragging Marian roughly by the arm, the pirate set down her ale tankard. She pretended to kiss each sailor on the cheek before rushing over to Varric.

"What's going on here?" she asked lowly and looked up worriedly at Marian. "Was there trouble?"

"We're hoping not," Varric conceded. "We had to lay a ploy for a nosy Tal-Vashoth, and it would be in our best interests to get to our lodgings before that dice game either ends or goes bad." He jerked a thumb in the direction from whence they came.

Isabela nodded and flicked a few coppers at the innkeep. She gestured for the others to follow her and led them out of the inn and along a street that climbed upward and inland. Varric wordlessly passed his chest to Fenris, shaking out his arms to rid himself of the ache by the time they got halfway up a hill that overlooked the docks.

"Where are we going?" Marian asked as the sun began to set and the buildings around them took on a significantly richer appearance. Large houses were sprawled across manicured lawns, and more than a few of them were completely surrounded by high iron fences or thick stone walls.

"I ran into a friend that owes me a favor...several favors actually." Isabela pointed ahead of them to a two-story villa that held a distinctly Orlesian charm. "After some arm twisting, we agreed that all debts would be considered settled if he gave me free reign of the place while on the island."

The companions walked up to the front gate and stood gazing in awe for a few moments. The owner was clearly wealthy and had respect for his possessions. The grass was a vibrant shade of green, and the topiary shrubs intricately trimmed. Bright, fragrant flowers grew thickly up colonnades and walls. The rosy light of the setting sun gleamed off the pale stucco. It was a house fit for a nobleman.

Isabela had the key to get them inside, supporting her story. Marian just really wished she knew exactly who the contact had been. She didn't want a repeat of Castillon or worse. The grounds were completely silent as they made their way toward the front door of the house. Not even birds sang here. It was moderately off-putting. Once inside the villa, it became far more obvious as to why.

The atrium was a large space with a marble floor and doorways branching off in all directions. In the center was a pool of clear water, accentuated by a statue not quite so lovely as its surroundings. Closer inspection proved that it wasn't a statue at all but the taxidermied remains of a dragonling.

"You've brought us to the house of a Tevinter magister!" Fenris exploded at Isabela, unable to take his eyes away from the dead creature that seemed to glow with an eerie yellow light. "A house warded, no less, and probably rife with traps and shades!"

"Relax," Isabela replied nonchalantly and with a dismissive gesture of her hand. "This house hasn't belonged to a magister in at least a century. The man who currently owns it wouldn't know a spell from a spider."

"Then who exactly is he?" Marian asked pointedly, her hands poised on her hips.

The other woman halted in her movement across the room. She hesitated a moment before even turning around, and when she did, the expression on her face screamed that she was warring with herself again. Do I tell them or not tell them? Do I be completely honest or omit something that will become vitally important later? If she did anything like she had with the Qunari relic again, Marian was fairly certain she would break her jaw, no matter how good of friends they were.

Isabela sighed and wilted with a look of guilt. "It was Castillon's," she replied with a helpless shrug. "I wrestled his landskeeper for the key and threatened him with death if he squealed word of it to anyone."

"And this is a problem, how? Castillon is dead."

"Yes, but no one here knows that, yet. We have his ship painted up with a new name, and once a friend of his spots that, we could be in for a load of trouble. I figured that the safest place to hide would be one so obvious, no one would bother looking for us there. Hence...this." She gestured to the ornately gilded walls surrounding them.

"Why not just stay at an inn?"

Fenris had walked over to one of the front windows in his frustration but sounded much calmer when he spoke. "We have the high ground here, the protection of thick walls, and a clear view of the entire docks and lower city. We also won't be surrounded by drunken mercenaries willing to participate in a fight just because one breaks out." He turned and nodded to Hawke. "Isabela's logic is sound even if she were reluctant in telling us." His eyes fell once again on the dragonling. "It still doesn't mean I completely like it."

The pirate captain's face split in a broad grin and she continued her way out of the atrium and deeper into the house. "Beautiful! Now that that's settled, we can all exploit the luxurious feather beds and get a decent night's sleep for once."

The others held back by the front door, looking at each other worriedly.

"Should we post a guard?" Varric asked, taking his chest back from Fenris with a nod of thanks. "Or figure out a rotation, at least? I really don't want to have a nasty surprise in the middle of the night."

"Let's get settled, first," Marian replied, "learn the layout and get more familiar with the place. We'll go from there."

Everyone thought it a sound plan, especially Fenris. They stayed together and wandered from room to room, inspecting everything from the placement of the furniture to what might lay under one rug or another. They peered behind paintings for peep-holes. They searched for secret openings in the wine cellar that could let people in or out. They did find one such tunnel, and the elf explored down its length for some time before returning and reporting that it emptied out at a small and private jetty in a cove.

The upstairs had six bedrooms arranged around an open courtyard above the atrium. Each had at least one window that commanded a view of a good portion of Llomerryn or the island overall, and it was agreed that this worked out very well in their favor. Isabela had claimed the master bedroom for herself, which left the others with smaller but no less grand quarters. Fenris chose the room that let him see in the direction of the private cove. Marian and Varric both preferred being able to keep an eye on the road leading up the hill from the town. Taarbas didn't voice his opinion at all but settled for what was left, a room along the northern wall that faced two neighboring manors and the channel between the island and the mainland.

Once they were established, they congregated in Hawke's room, sitting in two long sofas in front of a massive fireplace. The Qunari stood before the cold hearth, staring at an iron grating and flagstones stained black with many fires. He could tell that none had been set there recently. They had closed the heavy drapes in the room before lighting a single candelabrum that sat on the low table between them.

"Well, isn't this cozy?" Isabela asked with a playful coyness, leaning her head against Marian's shoulder. One leg was crossed casually over the other, and her fingers were woven together over the knee. For a moment, it looked as if she were about to fall asleep.

"We need to figure out what we're doing here," Marian stated flatly, jogging her shoulder to get her friend to sit up straight.

Isabela reluctantly raised herself up. "It's exactly what we discussed on the ship. We gather a few new men, resupply, and shove off again."

"While laying low?"

"Of course."

Varric huffed a humorless laugh. "Right, and hope that no one realizes that we have Castillon's ship and house and aren't actually Castillon."

Marian turned her narrowed eyes to the dwarf. "They had also better not find out that there's no such thing as the Jewel of Amaranthine or Dread Pirate Roberto."

"Not true," he replied with a smug expression. "The Dread Pirate Roberto features as the main antagonist in _Hard in Hightown_ when Donnen Brennicovick gets his first big break. Don't you remember that one? _Hard, Fast, and Heavy._ "

"I remember, Varric," Marian replied with a sigh, trying to slump down into the sofa but failing thanks to the corset. "I still don't see how a fictional character can help us."

The dwarf's grin broadened. "I left plenty of gratis copies behind at the inn...and at a couple of others we stopped through today. Remember how I start each one off with that disclaimer that the stories are true but the names have been changed and so forth? Yeah. Somewhere, somehow, some drunk pirate is getting his rocks off thinking he's going to track down the Dread Pirate Roberto and lay claim to the Jewel of Amaranthine. The rumor will spread like wildfire, and we'll have enough coin by the end of the week to sail out of here without a worry."

"Of course not. No worries but a horde of angry pirates sailing after us once they've realized they were duped." Fenris rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in defiance.

"Not at all! I'm not talking about _investment partners_. I'm talking about book sales. What they choose to do with a lot of overblown tripe is none of our business."


	16. Roses in Bloom

The first couple of days were quiet. Marian kept to her room in the borrowed house while Varric and Isabela would venture into town to see whatever they could accomplish. Varric said he had found an underground press more than willing to cheaply publish his guard serial, and he would distribute the copies on his own. He figured that would be the best way to make sure the "rumor plan" actually came to fruition. It had worked in Kirkwall; it should certainly work in Llomerryn. Isabela took any coin the dwarf earned to see if she could round up supplies not only for the ship but for living out the week. Hiring the crew, she said, would take significantly more time as she needed to feel out who was best.

Fenris and Taarbas also stayed up at the house. They took turns patrolling and ensuring that the neighbors weren't getting curious. Varric and Isabela were always careful to leave at morning twilight and return at dusk, the points when the light made it impossible for anyone to see well. They hoped it was enough.

On the morning of the third day, Marian couldn't stand to stay indoors any longer. The weather was absolutely gorgeous, and a walk in the gardens couldn't hurt. The walls were too high, and trellises shaded most of the limestone paths from the sun's harsh rays. That also meant it kept them protected from prying eyes. Castillon had been no fool when he decorated this place—if he was even the one responsible at all.

She exited the house through a door in the kitchen. It left her standing in a shadowed courtyard at the very back of the house where the flagstone was overgrown with weeds and lichen. Disused urns and flowerpots, both broken and whole, lay about everywhere. Had a woman lived here, or did Castillon just like to keep things blooming and growing? It was difficult to think that a slaver could have a soft spot for beauty, but it wasn't impossible. The blood mage that had murdered Marian's mother had been consumed with love for his own dead wife. There was always method to madness.

Marian followed the straight path that led from the courtyard and followed the northern wall. Roses in various pinks and reds bloomed all around her where they had grown tall and full over the wooden trellis. It smelled almost sickly sweet, but she didn't mind. She hadn't smelled roses since Lothering. To touch the soft, smooth petals was a greater joy, and she found it hard to resist investigating a number of the blooms, many of which were larger than her fist.

The path emptied into a sort of gazebo at the northwest corner. A huge wooden structure stood around a fountain of alabaster. The same roses that covered the trellis had crawled all over the white wood of the gazebo and consumed everything save for a moderately sized hole in the center of the roof beams. This let in a beam of direct sunlight that fell upon the fountain, sparkling almost blindingly upon the moving water. Marian peered down into the bowl of the fountain, curious about the growth of green algae that lined almost the entire thing. The water smelled fresh, but there was no way this fountain had been cleaned in at least a month. Had this been Castillon's summer residence? Was he really an Orlesian based out of Antiva or had this been his home? She didn't know why she bothered to wonder about a wicked man now dead. But she couldn't deny the beauty he had surrounded himself with at one point or another.

She caught her reflection in the pool of gently rippling water. She had let her hair down today as she always once had when it was shorter. Now, it had grown long down to the middle of her back, and it no longer framed her face the way it used to. Her eyes were the same green as her father's, and the way they crinkled when she smiled was exactly the same way his had. Time aboard the ship had given her a light dusting of freckles. _If only Aveline could see me now_ , the thought to herself. _I'd wager we could trade places for a day and no one but Donnick would know_.

Marian still wore the corset Isabela gave her on a daily basis. With no mage to heal her, she needed the support to let her stab wound knit itself back together. The restrictive piece of clothing helped a great deal even if it made sitting down a trifle more difficult. The pirate had even joked once, "Aww, see Hawke? Now you actually _look_ like you've got a stick up your arse rather than just acting it." The Champion remembered, quite vividly, elbowing Isabela in the stomach for that remark. Unfortunately, corsets make for excellent protection, and only Marian's elbow had felt anything resembling pain.

There was a soft footfall to her left in the gravel, and an indistinguishable face appeared in the fountain. Marian spun on instinct, her left arm up to protect her while her right hand clenched into a fist and swung in a stiff upper cut. The thrust was neatly caught in the large silver-skinned hand of a kossith.

"I did not find you in your room," Taarbas said simply, releasing her fist as she relaxed.

Marian shook her head and began to walk around the fountain to continue her stroll along the garden path.

"I was tired of being inside," she replied, her one hand trailing along behind her over bloom after bloom. She simply could not get enough of the sensation, not after so long wearing heavy gauntlets and wielding steel. It let her forget that she had callouses on her callouses.

It was not difficult for the Qunari to keep pace. "I was looking for you because we have not spoken in days. I...wanted to apologize."

"For what?"

"For behaving like Tal-Vashoth. They relish in such _basra vashedan_ that it disgraces me to even act the part."

Marian peered up at him curiously, her brow furrowed. "It was a necessary deception. There is nothing to berate yourself over."

"But I forgot your wound." His voice was low, growling. "And the way I treated you, I... It was wrong of me."

She allowed herself a chuckle and stopped to face him. When she was sure she had his attention, she rapped on the corset with her knuckles. "Boning. I didn't feel a thing." She continued the leisurely pace. "In fact, I still don't. Part of me wonders if this thing isn't cutting off circulation." She looked down at her confined midriff and ran her hands over the stiff, black leather as if that would supply the answer.

"And that day in your cabin. I should not have inconvenienced you as I did. It was against my better judgment."

Marian came to a very sudden halt at those rushed words, her hands still braced on the corset and her face contorted in bewilderment. She turned slowly toward him and looked up to try to meet his eyes. He remained facing forward, his head bowed and a crestfallen expression causing his typically strong features to sag. The woman reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. There was a lump forming in her throat that threatened to cut off her breathing. Every part of her face burned, and she knew it could not be the sun this time.

"Why are you saying this, Taarbas?" she asked, her voice soft yet urgent. "You know that you owe me no apology for-"

"I owe you more than an apology, _kadan_." The Qunari at last turned and met her gaze, steadily and intently. "My name...my rank, it is often translated as 'retriever of things.' But it is actually a shortened _taar eb-asala,_ which means 'retriever of souls.' Honor and the soul are united to the Qunari. To have no soul is to lose all honor. When a warrior falls in battle, their swords and weapons must be collected or their souls—their honor—are lost.

"To the Qunari who are not warriors, their soul and honor are represented in their emblem of rank." He drew forth a deep scarlet sash that he had folded. Upon it was blazoned the basketweave symbol of the House of Tides, and this was bracketed by an angled hash-mark on either side. He gently grasped her hand and laid the length of cloth in her open palm. "I owe you my honor, _kadan_. _Ebra esala tal._ Guard it well."

He said nothing more, and Marian could certainly think of nothing in reply. She stood there, dumbfounded, as his large hands continued to hold onto hers, pressing the soft linen against her palm. His eyes locked onto hers much as they had that day aboard the _Hawke's Flight_ , boring deep into her to where she felt completely exposed.

And she welcomed it.

A minute more and he was gone, walking purposefully along the path and out of the garden. Marian stayed where she was, breathing in the heady scent of the roses. She slowly closed her fingers around the sash and drew it in against her heart. _To understand is enough_ , she remembered him telling the elven _viddathari_ when they had been so concerned about Qunari affairs of the heart. As a human, she, too, had been worried that she would never understand the concept Taarbas had spoken of. But there, amidst the roses, a single tear slipped from Marian's eye and vanished into the curve of her smile.


	17. Wanted

That same evening, Isabela came barging into Marian's room. Her face was flushed with exertion, and her chest heaved with panting breaths. She ripped the scarf from her disheveled hair, and the rage in her eyes burned with the heat of the sun.

"Your betrothed," she spat, thrusting a paper in Hawke's face as the warrior sat before the dark fireplace, "is a _rat's arse_!" The way Isabela emphasized the last two words was akin to spitting poison. Marian had never heard the like come from her usually high-spirited companion and thought it best to diffuse the matter quickly.

"I could have told you that weeks ago. Why are you bringing this up, now?"

Isabela stabbed the paper with a finger. "This!" she exclaimed, holding it up so that it was right in front of Marian's nose. "Fliers like this are absolutely all over town! Did you know about this?"

The Champion gently took the paper from her friend's grasp and set to reading it, leaning forward so that the light from the candelabrum allowed her to see clearly.

 _Citizens,_

 _On the fifteenth day of the ninth month, being Kingsway,_

 _it was reported that her ladyship, Marian Hawke,_

 _Viscountess and Champion of Kirkwall,_

 _was kidnapped by brigands of the lowest ilk._

 _She was last seen boarding the Papillon,_

 _a ship of three mastheads and Orlesian make._

 _I, Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven and its environs,_

 _offer a reward of 500 gold sovereigns for news of her whereabouts_

 _and more for her safe return._

This was followed up by the seal of the House of Vael and a detailed description of Marian's appearance.

She sighed, "Castillon told me as much when he had us all prisoner...but I so desperately hoped that he was bluffing. Trust Sebastian's naivete to only land us in more trouble."

"And I'll bet Aveline told him," Isabela snarled, snatching the paper back only to crumple it violently and throw it into the cold fireplace. She then flung her hands in the air with a guttural roar of frustration and stomped back and forth across the hearth. "You've been keeping yourself in the house voluntarily to heal, I know, but as your friend and captain, I'm going to have to ask you to _keep_ doing just that. Llomerryn is too full of the swine that would jump at an opportunity like this."

"And it doesn't tempt you?"

The pirate paused mid-step and shot a glare at Marian. Her eyebrows lowered still further before she responded, "No. If I didn't know you—flames, would I ever go out looking for you. If you hadn't risked your life for mine against the Arishok and his cronies, I would have smiled sweetly and told you it was just business. I'm not blind, Hawke. I know why you insisted we bring that Qunari friend of yours, and this voyage isn't over until we accomplish what we've set out to do."

"Which is?" The Champion's tone carried no expression, but there was a glittering of anticipation in her eyes.

"To get you to Kont-Aar, and from there, Par Vollen. If that's what you really want."

Marian nodded, inhaling a deep breath and letting it out slowly. It was a lot to ask of her friends. Fenris, she did not worry for as he had been the greatest help in dealing with the Arishok to begin with. But Varric and Isabela had no such immunity—the pirate least of all due to her status amongst the Qunari as the thief of the Tome of Koslun. She was not the one truly to blame, but she had come forward before the Arishok's entire _taam_. Her description would be all over the archipelago and colonies by now.

Getting to Kont-Aar in a non-Qunari vessel would be difficult enough. There was absolutely no way the _Hawke's Flight_ would be allowed to sail to Par Vollen. It wasn't because of Isabela. It was simply because those not of the Qun could not pass. Should they need to go that far, Marian and Taarbas would be on their own.

"How are you on finding a crew?" she asked, breaking the silence that had grown.

Isabela shrugged. "I've found a few of the trustworthy sort. Elves."

"Do they know where we're going?"

"Do you _want_ me to tell people we're transporting a Qunari home? I'm offering them a job, guaranteed meals, and freedom from persecution. For them, that's enough."

"Would it let us sail tomorrow? Say, before dawn?"

The pirate regarded her friend carefully before a smile spread across her lips. "I was hoping you'd ask me something like that. Varric wants to stay and try to sell more of those silly books of his—claiming that we need all the coin we can get. The truth is, our hold is full, and the longer we stay here the more nervous I feel. I love exploiting all I can from Castillon, but this isn't exactly a holiday resort where your neighbors are friendly and have you over for tea.

"I don't have as large a crew as I'd like, but there's plenty to get us north. If the wind is with us, we're four days out of Kont-Aar."

Marian nodded and got to her feet. She walked over to her bed and began to make sure her few belongings were sorted. "Tell Varric to conclude his affairs and get all new crew members aboard. We get to the ship tonight and head out with the tide."

Isabela crossed her arms and gave the Champion a smug grin and a wink. "And here I thought I was the captain." And without another word, she left to do as she was told.

* * *

They all made for the ship separately. Isabela was the first aboard to make sure the crew knew what they were about and to see that departure would be quick and smooth. Varric grudgingly gathered up his impromptu bookselling business at Fenris' sharp prodding. He had to do one last thing, however, and that was to leave a note at the inn with the griffon sign that the Dread Pirate Roberto's ship was rumored to have recently docked in Antiva City. He hoped Rothgar could read.

"Was that really necessary?" Fenris asked him, rubbing at his temple like his head bothered him.

"What can I say? You can't have a good joke without the punchline."

Taarbas insisted on escorting Marian through the streets. She wore Isabela's scarf about her head to completely hide her hair. Her eyes she could do nothing about, but she truly didn't trouble herself. Sebastian had only ever seen her in armor and had apparently assumed she would still be wearing it or at least a pair of pants. _'Wearing clothing of a masculine nature,' indeed_ , she thought to herself with a smirk as she followed the massive form of the Qunari down the dark road from the house to Llomerryn proper. The prince would probably collapse in a dead faint if he saw her in a skirt, let alone a corset. _Then again, that might be the only way to get a rise out of him_.

The Qunari motioned for her to hold back as they approached the lit streets of the town, glancing around corners before realizing that the precaution was unnecessary. Those that were out at such an hour were piss drunk or focusing completely on the painted girls under tavern lights. Marian heard Taarbas groan to himself as he beckoned her forward.

"I know it's not your favorite type of crowd..." she whispered playfully to him, lightly nudging him in the hip with her elbow as she bent to see around him.

He said nothing in response, merely grabbed her about the waist with one arm and swung her easily up and over his shoulder. She gasped in surprise but quickly forced herself to start laughing. It was hard not to, when she got a glimpse of how Taarbas was walking, all puffed up and acting proud of himself that he'd caught himself a prize for the night. Marian also noticed several of the other women about giving her dirty, jealous looks.

"Why waste your time with that one, kossith?" she heard a sultry, feminine voice call out. Unfortunately, Marian's view was everything behind Taarbas rather than in front. "She's just a common trollop. I'll wager I can help satisfy the demand of your Qun _so_ much better. Know what I mean?"

Marian felt the Qunari stiffen and his grip around her become more fierce. It was a moment before he found his voice to respond. "Later, flower. This one needs to be taught a lesson in obedience, first." He jostled his shoulder up and down in emphasis, and the Champion returned to her act of laughing drunkenly.

"Oh, yes, Armaas," Marian breathed in a husky tone, "you did promise me the rod. Though...I do forget how many lashings." She burst into another fit of giggles. Taarbas quickly began walking again, and Marian felt it only suitable to waggle her fingers in a coy little wave back at the jilted whore. "Do I want to know?" she asked her companion when they were out of earshot.

"Only that, for a moment, I wished to have my eyes gouged out."

They made it the rest of the way to the ship without issue. Taarbas carried Marian the whole way, and she entertained herself by propping her head up as best she could and keeping an eye out behind them. It did not appear that they had been followed at all, though some sailors dockside took notice. She waved casually at them and imitated one of Isabela's exaggerated, meaningful winks. They laughed, winked at one another, and went back to their drinks and dice.

They stepped easily up the gangplank of the _Hawke's Flight_ , and Taarbas gently set Marian down on the deck. The others were already aboard. Everyone was moving about silently to get things squared away. One of the new elven sailors rushed down the gangplank without making a sound and cast off the ropes holding the ship to the pier. He then bounded back up, quick and quiet as the halla his people held so sacred, and brought up the wooden ramp with the aid of another. There was a low cranking as the anchor was raised, and oars were lowered to guide the ship into the open harbor.

Marian made her way up to the helm to be next to Isabela. Both women supervised what was happening across the deck and maintained a silence of their own until they were certain their voices couldn't carry anywhere close to shore.

"I dare not drop sail until we're further out," the captain explained. "The night right now is perfect—no moon, and I've ordered no lanterns lit. Sails would only catch the light from the town, and we just can't risk it."

"Surely you don't expect anyone to give chase at this hour."

Isabela's expression was grim and firm. "A ship's profile is the most recognizable part, other than the stern. We've had to cover the name with old canvas now that your status as 'kidnapped' has been released to all of bloody Thedas. The direction we're heading does make it easier. No one ever wants to sail into Qunari territory unless they have a death sentence. Usually. I just want to make sure we have a chance to get that far." She spun the wheel hard to port to get the ship facing the open ocean, her focus so strong, she gnawed at her lower lip until it was swollen.

It was a tense half hour, everyone's eyes on the town behind them that would soon be waking while Isabela gruffly ordered her men to row faster through clenched teeth. When she finally called for the sails to be set, a weight lifted from the entire main deck. Bodies moved around more freely, and conversations started up, though still in hushed tones.

"If we ever do go back to Kirkwall—for whatever reason," the pirate fumed to Marian later, "and should we _ever_ run into that idiot princeling, I will most gladly 'dampen his Divine' and he won't like it. At all."


	18. Demands of the Qun

The sun was brutal as they made their way north. They kept just in sight of the palm-crested shores of Rivain, the current pushing them more than the wind. Marian wanted to stay belowdecks as much as possible. Her southern skin just couldn't take the blazing heat, but the temperatures in confined quarters were atrocious.

Lessons with Taarbas no longer took place in the galley but on the upper decks proper. They weren't at a set time, either, but a constant thing. While setting a new tack, the Qunari drilled her on the language. While pacing the deck on watch, he educated her on Qunari customs from the most mundane to how one should properly address the Triumvirate. Even while he appeared to be occupied with his own tasks and she something else, he'd not leave the matter rest.

"What is the first demand of the Qun?" he shouted over the clash of metal as he and Fenris sparred one morning.

"Do all _viddathari_ go through this?" Marian asked, almost whining as she sat against the mainmast darning sailcloth. "It's like I'm being groomed to pass for a chevalier at a masquerade ball..."

Taarbas said nothing as he pushed Fenris back with a series of seemingly simple staff movements that still managed to confuse the elf in his opponent's intent. Fenris bared his teeth as he did his best to keep up and narrowly avoided a glancing blow to his hip. The Qunari had insisted on both fighting with staves merely to give the other a new challenge.

"All _viddathari_?" Taarbas responded at last. "No. Only the ones that the Ariqun will want to question herself due to their roles as diplomatic heads of state. Now, answer the question. The first demand, what is it?" He twirled his staff over his head then braced himself in a spear defense.

Marian sighed, dropping her work into her lap and leaning her head back against the wood of the mast. "To abandon struggle and submit to the will of the Qun."

"Good. The second demand!" Taarbas had to quickly duck as Fenris came at him with unexpected agility. The elf was catching on faster than first anticipated.

"To defend the Qun in the face of adversity."

"Third demand!"

"To embrace all Qunari as one's brothers and sisters in the Qun, regardless of race or origin."

"And the fourth!" Fenris was starting to use the entire deck to his advantage, using his staff to vault off various surfaces to not only evade Taarbas' blows but to come at him sharply from an unexpected angle. His lyrium markings smoldered, and sweat soaked his pale hair. The Qunari only glistened with perspiration along the expanse of his chest. His body was much more accustomed to such tropical climes.

"To spread knowledge of the Qun to those ignorant of its teachings."

The elf leaped from the foredeck, swinging his staff like a sword in a great cleaving arc from over his head. Taarbas bolted forward and slid onto his knees, bringing his staff up to bear to not only deflect the blow but to catch his opponent's feet as he sailed overhead. His aim was true. Fenris was unable to land in any defensible stance and wound up tumbling across the main deck. Marian had to scramble to not get caught in the tangle of limbs.

"The fifth demand." Taarbas stood and lowered his staff from fighting position, holding it point-down and against the back of his right arm.

"To excel in your purpose that you might best serve all Qunari." She tugged at the sailcloth, doing everything she could to get Fenris untangled from it. His armor caught and tore the cloth further, and she winced at the sound of more work.

Eventually, the elf was free and able to stand. He looked about furiously for his staff and was pained to see that it had rolled all the way to the other end of the deck where Swoop was absently gnawing at it like so much rawhide.

Taarbas laughed.

Both Fenris and Hawke spun when they heard the sound, deep and rumbling yet loud and boisterous. A wide smile had broken across his face, and his violet eyes were crinkled with mirth. The elf and human looked at each other uncertainly for a moment before allowing themselves to relax and chuckle at the ridiculous situation as well. Swoop raised his head to them and twitched his ears. His head cocked to the side briefly before he set about gnawing again.

"Well, so much for that weapon," Fenris commented with a gesture. "I've heard it rumored that mabari can eat anything."

Marian merely allowed herself a knowing smile.

They all took Swoop's interference as the sign that it was time to get properly back to work if they were to make it to Kont-Aar and out of the reach of any Raiders from Llomerryn that might have seen fit to follow. Marian went back to her sewing. Fenris climbed the rigging to help let out more sail. And Taarbas headed below to take inventory of the supplies and cargo. His pseudonym while pretending to be Tal-Vashoth had gotten Isabela thinking that he was the prime candidate to be the new quartermaster. After all, who would try to steal so much as a hard biscuit when a Qunari loomed over you with a great, bladed iron rod?

By the time the fourth bell sounded, Marian had buried herself under a sheet of finished sailcloth to try to keep the sun off her as best as possible. It had seemed that her skin was becoming one great freckle, ceasing to burn in the harsh light and charring instead. Another few days like this, and she'd be as bronze as Isabela. It affected her hair, too, the ginger strands now streaked with gold. She wasn't sure what she thought about it.

The fifth bell...the sixth bell... The ship bobbed lazily in the water, the light sound of lapping waves carrying up from below. The breeze was so soft as to be almost nonexistent, and Marian wished so desperately that she no longer had to wear the corset to let her wound heal. The novelty had long since worn off, and now it was just a stiff and inconvenient piece of clothing that made it feel like she was wrapped in her own personal stone baking oven. Her ribs hurt, and every night when she took the thing off, she became more and more worried that the imprints from her blouse's wrinkles would become permanent scars of their own.

The seventh bell.

 _Maker, will this shift never end?_

The furiously attacked the last tear she could find and stitched it up as quickly as she could. She didn't care that it puckered and looked like a wicked scar. It just needed to be able to catch the wind, right? Fine then. Finishing the seam, she tied off the ends of the thread and bit the needle free. It was then a matter of burrowing herself out of her crumpled canvas shelter. When she broke free, she wadded up the yards and yards of sail cloth and dragged them down the steps to the hold beneath the forecastle deck.

It was dim belowdecks, and the air was so close it felt like breathing wool. Marian headed to where the two sides of the hull angled together and formed the point of the bow. It was there that all the other spare sailcloth was kept, and she unceremoniously added her ungainly wad of canvas to the pile. She rubbed her sweaty palms against the linen of her skirt in an attempt to try them, but it was of little use.

She was hot. She was cranky. And she was actually upset that no one had wanted to spar with her since the debacle with Castillon.

As she was leaving, her eyes fell upon two crates painted with the angled symbol of the House of Tides. She simply stood there and stared at them for a minute, her eyes seeing but her mind not thinking. Then, suddenly, a wily grin spread across her lips, the whiteness of her teeth a contrast to the sun-browned skin of her face. Beside one of the crates was the bundle of Orlesian brocade that had once been the canopy to her bed in Kirkwall. She reached over and picked it up, slowly and almost reverently unwrapping the fabric from around the glorious sword it contained. What was left in her hand was the two-pronged, fanged sword of the Arishok. Marian bit at her lip, still smiling, and bundled the weapon back up again. She'd just thought up the perfect recipe for a lovely afternoon.


	19. Fighting for Honor

Back on deck, Marian held the wrapped Sataareth in her hands as if it were nothing more than a folded blanket or carpet, making her way to the captain's cabin at the stern. Even Isabela seemed to take no particular notice of her as she leaned against the helm, apparently daydreaming about one thing or another as she guided the ship as much with her chin as with her arms.

The eighth bell rang just moments after she stepped into the cabin. The windows had all been opened to try to let in a breeze, but the effect was negligible at best. It did make the air fresher, however, and that on its own was a blessing. Marian laid the bundled sword on her bunk while she fished about the shelf above for her own blade, the Basrath-Kata that she'd not seen or touched in over a week. She had learned in her language lessons with Taarbas that the name of the blade literally meant 'death to all things', but she wasn't about to have scruples over that. In fact, she rather liked the concept, feeling that a keen blade with such a confident name was only appropriate.

She set about hitching up her skirt so that it would not affect her range of motion. This involved gathering it up above her knees and securing it with her belt. It reminded her a bit of those women at Llomerryn who did such things to show off their skin or their frilly knickers, but she felt no such shame. She was a warrior. This was for practical reasons. As going barefoot had become a preference aboard the ship, Marian had to hunt a bit for the pair of boots Isabela had let her borrow. She eventually found them shoved far underneath her bunk. When she pulled them out, she was in for an unpleasant surprise.

 _I've heard it rumored that mabari can eat anything._ They can. And Swoop did. Flames, that was something inconvenient that she really didn't want to have to tell Isabela. One of the boots was perfectly intact while the other was covered in canine tooth marks. Barefoot it would have to be.

Or perhaps not.

Marian went to Isabela's side of the room and rummaged about in one of the large sea chests where she kept her belongings. The pirate captain may have worn scant little clothing, but that didn't mean she only had that much. The chests were full of things she'd found in her many journeys, usually purloined from some noblewoman's boudoir or fellow rogue's equipment. Rummaging through the folded silks and starched linens, Marian eventually found her way to the bottom. There, paired up nicely, sat a collection of shoes of varying sorts. Among them was a worn pair of leather boots, knee-high and supple with use and age. The Champion smiled. She knew the design: Fereldan.

She quickly tugged them on her feet, set the trunk back to rights, and brushed the dust from her hands. _Now to have some fun_ , she thought to herself as she went back to her bunk, bared both swords and grasped them up in each hand by the hilt. Rolling her shoulders and flexing her neck, she made her way back out onto the main deck.

"Qunari," she shouted, catching a glimpse of Taarbas tying off rigging after having finished adjusting tack. " _Tal-shok!_ " Brusquely, she tossed Sataareth over to him. He dove to catch it so that it wouldn't be dishonored by hitting the wooden planking.

"Female," he growled lowly as he straightened. The sword looked less massive in his grasp than it did that of a human. In fact, Marian realized with wonderment that she hoped didn't show on her face, it looked almost like it were made for him. "You dare to challenge me?"

Marian stepped closer to him, the Basrath-Kata lowered but firm in her grip. "I do. And you will fight me, Qunari. Spout all you want that there are no women in your army, but don't lie to me and say they don't fight at all." She brought her sword up to bear. Since Llomerryn, she had become a proper _viddathari_ , and that had made Taarbas treat her less as the warrior _basalit-an_ she had been and more like someone whose proper place was off the field of battle entirely. It had irked her, feeling like it was not only her wound crippling her, now. She needed the adrenaline rush from a good fight, and the only one aboard that was going to give her the challenge she needed was the one who thought it unsuitable that she duel him at all.

Taarbas stared at her for a long while. His face was darkened by a deep glower, and for some time Marian was actually worried that she had upset him—or worse, disappointed him. He stood with his shoulders squared, breathing steadily, his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of the sword belonging to the Arishok. His eyes locked onto hers. She became overwhelmed with that now-familiar feeling, that he were delving deep into her very being as if looking for the meaning behind her actions. All it did was make her heart beat faster in her chest and her palms feel clammy despite the heat.

Without a word, he brought his sword up and charged in to meet her, swinging the blade with one hand even more easily than he had ever fought with a staff. It was a powerful swing, and Marian had to use both hands on her sword's hilt and lower blade to absorb the shock and keep from being forced to her knees. She pushed back with a grunt and came at him, moving her left arm back for balance.

Taarbas remained on the offensive. His face was grim, and Marian was moved inexorably backward as he came at her relentlessly. He was not about to go easy on her, not when his honor was at stake in such a duel—with a female! And not any female but the very one he had entrusted his honor to in the first place. He could not afford to lose. He wasn't ignorant. This woman had dueled the Arishok and won, and that had been an honorable death for the Qunari, dying under the blade of a _basalit-an_. It was a rare time when gender mattered little. But this? That same woman had so recently pledged her life to the Qun and asked a brother who was no longer a warrior to a _tal-shok_ , a duel of honor that under normal circumstances would have been to the death.

He leaned into her. He had Marian pressed up against the railing of the main deck, her torso leaning backward almost to where she could have fallen over the side had her footing not been solid. Her eyes were narrowed up at him, the brilliant green burning with the full strength of her being. His gaze was not so impassioned, but it was everything he could do to keep it from being so. He saw a kindred soul in those eyes, and he had long since made the decision to guard this woman's honor with his very life.

Marian couldn't understand why all he did was stare at her, holding her against the railing at such an angle that she was unable to get the leverage to break free. She met his eyes, stared hard into them. It was impossible to identify, but there was something beyond his stony expression, something lost in the violet and silver and the deep black in the center. As if she hit a trigger deep within him, she saw his eyes widen just a hair and he reigned in just a little. It was enough. She thrust her right foot out to the side and quickly ducked, sliding out from his grasp and spinning to come about behind him.

Taarbas fell against the railing, startled only for an instant before he turned and let out a grunt of frustration. Not a second later, he was back to swinging the vicious blade at her, chasing her all over the deck as Marian changed tactics and began to use her slighter size and greater agility to her advantage. Her fights with Isabela had taught her a few tricks. She fought her way backward up the stairs of the forward deck...and leaped over Taarbas when she had reached the top. The landing jarred her ribs even though she kept her footing, and it bought her opponent just enough time to overcome his shock and turn back around.

Their fight took them in circles around the main mast. Varric was hollering something down to them...cheers, jeers...it was really difficult for Hawke to tell. She did think that, at one point, she heard something along the lines of, "Come on, primitive horn-head, she's just a girl!" It was difficult to discern exactly who it was meant to insult. In response, they both fought with a renewed vigor that had sweat leaving sparkling trails down both their faces.

Marian got away from the dizzying realm of the main mast as quickly as she could and moved further astern. Taarbas still had the upper hand, constantly changing tactics to keep her on the defensive, and it was becoming infuriating. Even the Arishok had not been so creative in his dueling, though she had to admit that the Viscount's throne room had decidedly less environment to turn in one's favor. Taarbas had an entire ship at his disposal, ropes to trip her with, railings to throw her over, masts to use in defense if, Maker forbid, she _did_ get a swing or two at him.

Her ribs were really starting to pain her. The acrobatics had definitely been a bad idea, and she could feel her entire body beginning to cave to weariness. The corset also heavily restricted her air flow, and her chest was heaving with every breath, her blouse and hair soaked from the exertion.

Taarbas kicked out with his foot at her abdomen and shoved her into the wall of the aft castle. The air went out of her with the blow, and her sword was thrown from her hand. The Qunari immediately penned her in, his left hand pressed up against the wall while his sword stabbed into the wood on the other side. He quite literally had her over a barrel, the woman leaning against it very much like she had at the railing, her torso craning backward but her legs having nowhere to go.

She glared up at him defiantly, trying to hide the fact that she had no fight left in her. Taarbas leaned in, his face not more than a hair's breadth from hers.

"Satisfied?" he growled.

He stalked away, leaving the sword in the wall and Marian breathless with a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach. As he went back to his duties on the other side of the ship, he didn't even spare a glance behind him.


	20. A Lesson in Humility

"Well, that's going to leave a mark," Isabela commented wryly as she took in the length of Sataareth that protruded into the main cabin. It was well half the blade. Splinters of shattered wood lay upon the floor, and daggers of it stuck out around the shining steel of the sword like so many dragon's teeth. The captain held the porcelain wash basin in her hands. It was freshly full of clean water and a sprig of herbs one of the elves claimed had healing properties.

Marian lay on her bunk, face-down with her hands holding her thin pillow tightly over her head. It looked like she was trying to block out the entire world. She was wearing nothing but a linen shirt, the skirt, corset, and boots thrown haphazardly wherever fate decided to take them. Her shoulders were shuddering, but Isabela wasn't about to guess if she was crying or merely angry. She knew her friend much better than that.

With a sigh through her nose, Isabela softly walked across the space and sat on the edge of the bed. She set the bowl on a low stool that was already nearby, pulled a clean rag from where she'd tucked it in her belt, and dropped it in the water. While the cloth soaked up the moisture, she opened up the back of Marian's shirt, finding the crude stitchwork one of Castillon's men had done to keep the Champion alive. There wasn't any sign of infection, but Isabela felt around the wound, anyway. Her fingertips pressed lightly into the flesh, and she watched for her friend's reaction. Marian continued to ignore her.

"Roll over," Isabela said, her voice quiet but allowing for no argument. "If your wound reopened somehow, I need to take care of it."

Marian's back swelled up with a deep, quaking breath, and she hesitated just long enough that Isabela almost thought her request was going to be ignored. But the other woman was merely slow to respond. Her hands came off the pillow and moved back so that she could push herself up and around, easing herself back down so that her head was resting on the pillow rather than beneath it. Her eyes were puffy and red, her nose the same, and Isabela heaved another sigh as she lifted Marian's shirt just high enough to find the other set of stitches. It was as she feared. There was dark bruising around the wound, and some clotted blood clung to the skin. She reached for the cloth and began to clean.

"I did warn you, you know," the pirate said, trying to keep her tone bright. "Chasing after Qunari...it's like trying to squeeze affection from a stone. In fact, the stone would even bleed, first."

The Champion's chest lifted with the sound of unheroic sniffles. "Why do you keep thinking that's what this is about?" she demanded, her voice deceptively calm. "I never expected or wanted any such thing."

"Yet you seek his constant approval."

"Because, right now, he's the whole Qunari people to me," Marian snapped back. "With the Arishok dead—my _own_ fault, I might add—Taarbas is my only chance of getting in, of proving myself."

Isabela stopped wiping with the cloth for a moment while she used her thumbs and forefingers to measure the bruise on Marian's abdomen. _Through a corset_ , she fumed to herself. _Unbelievable_. She rewet the cloth and wrung it out, the water tinkling almost happily back into the bowl. She pressed it to the entire bruise for a while, hoping to bring the swelling down.

"I'm not sure that trying to humiliate him was really the best way to accomplish that."

Marian just stared back at her, her gaze flat and emotionless, her mouth relaxed. Only her chest moved with her breathing. Isabela didn't care whether she'd said the right thing or the wrong thing. She'd said a _true_ thing, and whatever plan the Champion had for their going north, it certainly didn't have any room for foolishness.

Several minutes of silence followed. Isabela worked diligently at getting the wound cleaned up, and Marian gradually calmed down completely. Her face stopped looking like she'd been crying, and her eyes had even taken on a thoughtful expression, like some part of her realized that all truly was not lost. The pirate, however, was not calming down rather than getting more steamed up. The affects the cool water had on the bruise were substantial, and she wound up throwing the rag angrily into the bowl. It hit the water with a resounding _slap_ , and Isabela rose quickly to her feet. Marian looked up at her curiously, but the pirate didn't even give so much as a gesture to let her know what she was thinking as she stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind her.

Taarbas, Varric, and Fenris were all on deck sitting on low crates around a lantern in the starlight while the dwarf appeared to be telling a grandiose story with fluid gesticulation. He stood and danced a little jig, the other two laughing loudly, the elf clutching his sides like they even hurt from the mirth. Isabela would have smiled with delight under any other circumstances. Right now, she was a woman—a very angry woman—on a mission.

She stormed right up to Fenris and slapped him soundly across the face. The blow whipped his head to the side and almost knocked him completely from his seat. He sat there stunned, and a deathly silence immediately fell over the entire ship.

"What was that for?" he demanded angrily, rising to his feet and touching his fingers to his smarting cheek. It was already turning red.

"It was actually meant for him," Isabela exclaimed, pointing emphatically at Taarbas but keeping her eyes locked on the elf, "but you scare me less."

Varric looked from one side to the other in confusion, meeting the gaze of Fenris then Taarbas, then shrugging his shoulders helplessly.

"Alright, Rivaini, I give up. What's going on here that would make you want to hit the Qunari?"

Isabela spun on him, the lantern light catching the fury in her eyes. Her hands were clamped in fists to her sides, her breathing slow and heavy like she was trying desperately to calm herself down. These were her friends almost as much as Marian was her friend. Taking it out on them would be useless, but she really had no urge to directly insult the Qunari. Not after what she just saw.

"She's bleeding on the inside," she said, her voice quiet and cracking. "The stitching held the wound closed on the outside but..." her eyes lifted to finally stare hard at Taarbas, "...there's an ugly bruise on her stomach the size of a Qunari's foot. Who knows what other damage there is."

Taarbas rose quickly and glared down at the captain, his eyes menacing and mouth snarling. "I would never do anything to harm her," he hissed through clenched teeth. "It would shame me to do so."

"Oh, really," Isabela sneered, crossing her arms over her chest. Her courage was growing, and she was not about to be intimidated. "Go see for yourself the damage you've done. Then come and tell me how ashamed you _really_ are."

She stormed away, the first bell going off for a new shift. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes still glowering, as she climbed the steps to the aft deck and the helm.

Taarbas stood with Fenris and Varric a minute longer, his hands clenching and relaxing while he ground his teeth in frustration. Then, he roared and tugged at his hair before stomping away to the aft castle and the main cabin there. Isabela heard the door open then felt more than heard it slam shut, the ship's wheel rattling in her hands from the force. She stared straight ahead, but her lips were smiling.

Beneath the captain's feet, the Qunari stood just inside the cabin, his chest heaving with every breath while his nostrils flared. His eyes fell to where Hawke lay unmoving upon her bunk, her shirt still bunched up to expose the wound. Her blanket covered her legs, and her arms were straight along her sides. If she were sleeping, it was a very good act. Taarbas' demeanor softened as soon as he saw the extensive bruise. He had thought that Isabela was making a big fuss over nothing, that she were merely trying to make him feel foolish for the sake of a female, but he could see with his own eyes how painfully honest she had been.

His steps over to the bed were quiet, but Marian's eyes followed his every move once he was in her field of vision. It was the same flat stare she had given Isabela earlier, a look that almost made it appear that there was no emotion behind the spring green flecked with brown. Taarbas felt something tighten around his heart, and he nearly choked on his own breath. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood straighter, clearing his throat before he spoke.

"The thief said your wound had reopened." That had come out more stiff than he would have liked, but it was only appropriate.

Marian gestured with a hand to the extensive bruising. Her eyes didn't move, didn't change. Even the movement of her hand was so blasé that it was almost disturbing to see. Taarbas swallowed hard. The color was too livid for any normal bruise, and he could see fresh blood oozing forth from around the stitchwork. His eyes fell upon the water in the basin now stained a faint brown from the herbs. He met Marian's gaze and held it while he stepped over and took up Isabela's abandoned seat at the edge of the bed.

His face remained hard and stern even while his insides tightened and throbbed with worry. He wrung out the rag and set to finish what the captain had started, diligently cleaning the wound and seeing if there wasn't something he could do to fix it. He was silent for a good long while, hesitant in his actions. It was hard for him not to feel like his hands were simply too big for the task. Marian looked so small and frail lying there. Her face was turned away from him, now, staring at the grain of the wood in the wall. She didn't flinch from him, even when he accidentally snagged the cloth in her stitches. She merely inhaled a sharper breath, and it made him wince. Quickly, he collected himself.

"Any Tamassran would tell you that this is a merely a payment earned by your actions." Taarbas closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. "I mean-"

"They would tell me that I deserved this," Marian finished, clarifying the statement for him. "A female has no right to bear arms."

The kossith's expression softened. The woman still didn't turn her head to look at him. "I understand that you have spent much of your life as a warrior," he said, his voice soft like black Orlesian velvet. "But I also understand that the reason why you had to be that way is gone." He reached over and laid a finger under her chin, coaxing her to look at him. "You fought to protect your family. Now, you must let your family fight to protect you."

"My family is dead."

Taarbas allowed a wan half-smile as he returned to cleaning her wound. "Did you not recite the _meraad_ to me?"

She gave a shallow nod in return.

"Then the entire Qunari people are your family, _kadan_." His smile became fuller, warmer, as he glanced up at her. "And I could not wish for anything better for you."

Tears welled up in Marian's eyes and her face became strained as she tried to hold back a cry. Too long the deaths of her mother, brother, and sister had hung over her, the woman looking at them as entirely her fault for not being stronger, smarter, or faster. The years in Kirkwall had felt futile and wasted as a result. Finally, the bottled emotion was too much, and that last vestige of a wall around her heart burst apart. She turned her head again and covered her face in shame, afraid that tears were a sign of weakness to the Qunari.

Taarbas let her continue like that for some minutes. It gave him time to find clean thread and a needle and strips of linen in a small box near the wash stand and to clean the knife he kept in his boot. Despite Marian's shuddering torso, he deftly cut the existing stitches and pulled them free of her flesh. Cleaning the scarring wound again, he quickly and neatly sewed it back up. He then took the herbs that had been soaking in the water and placed them directly over the stitching and covered this with the linen, wrapping the remaining strips around the woman's body to secure it tightly.

When he was finished, he took Marian's hand that still lay clutching the woolen blanket and held it between his hands like he had when he gave her his insignia of rank. He closed his eyes. And he prayed for her.


	21. A Matter of Pride

Taarbas closed the cabin door slowly so that, when it latched, there was no more than a light click. He had sat with Marian until she cried herself to sleep, her hand grasping at his fingers like a child in the throes of nightmare. When her breathing was even and her face at peace, he made his escape, desperately needing rest of his own. They were not long out of Kont-Aar.

There was a cheery whistling above him. A trilling song carried out from the helm as Isabela guided the ship by the light of the moon and stars. The Qunari's face darkened. The memory of what had happened earlier swirled in his mind like flotsam caught in the tide. Squaring his shoulders, he mounted the steps to the aft castle deck.

Isabela looked over to him, a smug expression curling her mouth while the wind tousled her hair. Her stance was easy. Her head was tilted like she hadn't a care in the world. "So," she began, holding the single syllable as long as she could, "how's that feeling of guilt coming?"

A deep furrow formed above Taarbas' nose as he stepped deliberately toward her. When he stopped, there was only the thickness of the wheel between them. The pirate's demeanor did not change.

"The part of me that is ashamed," he rumbled, his jaw barely moving as he mouthed the words, "is that which allowed you to so infuriate me."

Isabela sighed dramatically. She'd had a good long while to prepare herself for this confrontation. "And, here, I thought you were actually growing a heart in that expansive chest of yours."

The Qunari simply stared at her. No. He wasn't staring _at_ her. He seemed to be staring _through_ her...or into her. Either way, it was moderately unnerving and definitely not helping matters.

"Look," the pirate continued quickly, "I apologize about being an arse about it, but no one has been as good to me as Hawke has. Her safety is my top priority right now."

Even as he continued to stare, Taarbas' face fell, gradually shifting from anger to a pained sadness. He closed his eyes tightly and looked down before he spoke.

"As it is mine." His voice was firm, but Isabela sensed something almost vulnerable behind it. It was as if he were admitting something not because he wished to but because it was a necessity. "This heart you claim I do not have lies dying. I cannot allow that. My _duty_ does not permit it." He looked back up at her, the sadness mingled with annoyance. "And it is with...extreme reluctance...that I must ask a favor."

Isabela didn't know what irked him more: what he needed to ask, or that he needed to ask it of her. She swallowed any more sarcastic comments she'd had planned and nodded for him to go on.

"You are Rivaini."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Clearly."

"Your people worship no god, yet they believe...spirits can help them."

"Depends on who you ask."

"You do not chain or imprison your _saarebas_."

"Of course not! We're not so ignorant as the rest of the bloody world. Er...no offense meant, of course."

Taarbas brushed the comment away. "I am loath to admit it, but a _saarebas_ is the only thing that can heal that wound. We must find one."

The pirate breathed a sigh and stared up into the sky for a minute. They were still on a northerly course alongside the coast, but in this part of Rivain, there was precious little by way of a settlement outside of Kont-Aar. There was only one place she could think of, and she really hoped that it would prove to be a safe harbor. With Sebastian's posted reward for the Champion, there was no telling how much of Thedas had gotten word and were in on the hunt.

After calculating their bearings, Isabela nodded shallowly as if to herself then returned her gaze to the Qunari before her. "We'll put in at Seere," she said, her voice soft but authoritative. "It's a small village, but the ship can make berth there. It's the last place we'd be able to find a hedge witch before we reach the colony."

The Qunari merely nodded and made to head back down the stairs.

"Taarbas," Isabela called after him, the expression on her face suddenly earnest. Her hands gripped the wheel a little tighter. When he turned, she was gnawing at her lip nervously. "I really am sorry," she continued, her tone genuine. "I'm just so afraid to lose her."

Taarbas merely gazed back at her with that unnerving, piercing stare for a minute before descending to the lower deck. He didn't look back at all before he entered the forecastle and his bunk in the darkness there.

Isabela beat her hand against the wheel before she began to throttle a spoke like it was someone's neck. There was nothing quite like a Qunari's silent stare to leave you feeling naked and stupid. She still felt justified in her outburst from earlier, but her attempt to be the better man and actually apologize was greeted with a look more patronizing than any of Sebastian's speeches. She let her forehead fall forward and come to rest on the smooth wood of the ship's wheel, her lungs releasing a slow breath through pursed lips.

"How do you do it, Hawke?" she muttered to herself, slowly craning her neck back up to the sky. "You make priests into princes...thieves into honest women...and now this. Blood from so many stones. So many stones..." Her voice trailed off with her train of thought, her mind snapping back to focusing on the task at hand. Seere. Somehow, in the dark, she had to find it.

* * *

A fog came with the dawn twilight. It wasn't thick, but it cloaked all but the tallest of the palms along the shore. The sound of the ocean rolling beneath the ship was muted, stifled. Isabela had roused Varric early. She needed his eyes to see above the gloom to avoid running aground on the many sandbars that could often lay far offshore.

She was positively exhausted. Her eyelids were heavy, her vision blurring if she stared for too long as if her eyes were lazily crossing. The pirate had stayed awake all night at the helm, refusing to turn over control of the ship to anyone no matter how well they claimed to know the waters. She wasn't going to Seere because Taarbas had insisted. She was doing it for Hawke...and she was doing it for herself.

Isabela still remembered very clearly that day the Qunari had practically razed Kirkwall, trapping anyone worth keeping alive in the Viscount's throne room. She remembered Hawke being forced there to go alone to speak up against the Arishok. She recalled even more vividly at how the Champion had refused against all threats to give up her friend...even though that friend had gone and run off with the Tome of Koslun and left a silly note as her only explanation. Marian had been pleasantly surprised when Isabela had strode into that throne room, all pomp and swagger and not a thought for her own welfare, not caring that she was going to die or worse.

 _You made me grow a conscience, Hawke_ , she thought to herself. _Blast it all to flames_.

Worse still, she was entirely in the Champion's debt. It wasn't a matter of owing one favor or something so simple as a life-debt. Isabela knew that after she got Marian to the hedge witch and she was (hopefully) healed like new that she would follow the other woman even if it meant sailing off the edge of the world. Even if it meant risking a Qunari blockade just to get to Par Vollen. Even if it meant raiding the Tevinter Imperium. Even if-

"Rivaini, aren't you _listening_?"

Isabela blinked rapidly and shook her head to clear it. She hadn't even noticed that Varric had been calling down to her for some time, now.

"What?" she called back up, barely making out the dwarf's vague form through the sluggish billows of fog.

"I see shallows off to port. Worse, I think there are masts up ahead. Quite a number of them."

Isabela deftly adjusted to give the hull clearance of the sandbars. Regardless, she hadn't been fast enough, and she could feel the grinding of the wood over the crystalline sand below. She held her breath until they were clear and in deeper waters, the muted rumble of open water returning. The masts she couldn't see from her position. She called back up to Varric to supply details, if there were any flags, how many sails. There were no visible flags. The sails were all furled.

Isabela grinned.

"Guide me to those ships," she called up, a light tone in her voice that belied her weariness. "We make berth at Seere!"


	22. Seere

It was another two hours before they reached a small harbor that arched across the narrow expanse of the bay. The ships docked there were of Rivaini or Qunari make, both putting Isabela slightly more at ease for different reasons. The Rivaini vessels were small, short-distance affairs, more likely to be used for fishing than Champion hunting. For the Qunari to be involved in foreign affairs of that nature was even less likely. It didn't look like Sebastian's notice had made it this far north, and that would be a welcome thing, indeed.

Seere had once been a sprawling city before the time of the Fourth Blight. But between the darkspawn and the Tevinter Imperium and the Qunari, it had been reduced to a granite ruin the size of Denerim but with the population of Lothering. As the morning sun burned away the fog, Isabela took in the view. Even being born in Rivain, she had lived too far south to ever set eyes on what had once been a legendary city. Now, even in ruins, it took her breath away as she looked from the fishing village of wooden huts and low stone buildings close to the harbor up and up and up to layer upon layer of tall granite buildings nestled into the ridge of a mountain. Only one of those palace-like structures still seemed to be in use, and the blazing sun banners told her exactly what. The Chantry never could leave well enough alone no matter how lost the cause. In fact, lost causes just seemed to make them all the more stubborn.

Rivaini men already on the docks came over to help secure the ship. Elves from the crew immediately joined them, and the _Hawke's Flight_ was safely at harbor in record time. As soon as the gangplank was lowered, Isabela secured the wheel and rushed to the main cabin to check on Marian. She excitedly pushed open the door but halted just across the threshold. Any excited expression that might have been on her face dissipated at the sight of Taarbas, bending over the bunk to pick the Champion up in his arms. Swoop was pacing around in circles under the windows whining pitifully.

When Taarbas straightened and turned toward the door, Isabela was almost shocked to see how slight and frail her friend looked. Her skin had a sickly pallor, and her cheeks and eyes were sunken. So much had changed overnight that the pirate herself felt lightheaded and more than a little disturbed.

"What happened?" Isabela breathed. "Did she lose more blood?"

The Qunari shook his head, careful as he walked across the room but refusing to push past the pirate. His anger for her appeared totally forgotten.

"The wound is much improved," he replied, easing himself and his load out the small door when Isabela moved obligingly aside. "But she burns with fever. We can waste no time. The _saarebas_ , quickly."

Isabela nodded dumbly and followed him out onto the deck. As the Qunari descended the gangplank, Swoop close on his heels, the pirate captain put fingers to her mouth and blew a sharp, piercing whistle. All bustle on the deck ceased. She called for Fenris and Varric and demanded the others stay with the ship. Their business in Seere should not take long, and there was no intention to stay. When the elf and dwarf emerged, cautiously armed at the thought of potentially dealing with Qunari other than Taarbas, they descended to the pier and walked quickly to catch up with the others.

It was the opposite of Llomerryn. Where, in the pirate city, they had blended in to the shifting, motley crowd, here every eye was upon them. Rivaini, Qunari, everyone stopped what they were doing to watch the curious sight of a kossith Qunari carrying a female human and chased by a mabari warhound. When the other three also passed through, the looks went from innocent curiosity to pure and unadulterated interest. It didn't help that Taarbas didn't know exactly what he was looking for and that gruff demands of, "Where is the _bas_ _saarebas_?" only made the native Rivaini shake their heads and scurry away. Isabela braved sparking his ire and grabbed onto one of his arms with both her hands to draw him to a stop.

"We can't go about it like this," she hissed, a twitch of her head motioning in the direction of an armored Qunari war party rising from where they sat in front of a building and all looking in their direction. "Those gents probably think you're Tal-Vashoth, and the rest might think it best to lock you up for being crazy." She looked about her quickly. "Let me take care of this."

While Taarbas and the others were left to keep an eye out, Isabela crossed the street to a wizened man sitting behind a stall of vegetables. Her voice was low, but Fenris thought he picked up the burr of a trilling language or dialect. It definitely wasn't the common tongue. What it was, however, was a total mystery to him.

"What is she doing?" he whispered to Varric, a hint of impatience in his voice. "I thought she said this situation is dire. It looks like they're talking about the weather."

Varric also tried to listen in but was stumped by the language. "The Rivaini is talking to another Rivaini. That's the extent of my knowledge." He glanced over to the band of Qunari, one with thick armor plates motioning to the others to stay where they were as he came over. "But it's not going to help us against him, that's for sure."

The kossith stopped a good three paces from where the band stood. Isabela was laughing, now, from the other side of the street, and the others tried not to let it show how uneasy that made them. Only Taarbas seemed to be completely unfazed, his goal one thing and one thing only.

" _Shanedan_ , Qunari," he said in greeting to the soldier with a bow of the head.

" _Shanedan_ , what is your business here?" The other Qunari's voice was gruff but emotionless. It was not friendly, but it wasn't particularly threatening, either. They conversed strictly in the Qunari language. Fenris listened in carefully while drawing Varric off to the side to be respectful. The dwarf appeared to resist at first, his curiosity piqued, but the elf grabbed him by the collar and gave him no choice.

"This _viddathari_ was gravely wounded by _basra_ assassins," Taarbas explained in the tone of one addressing a superior officer. "The wound heals but she has been stricken by fever."

"Whether she lives or dies is the will of the Qun."

"She is _Qunoran Vehl_. She must have the opportunity to reach Par Vollen."

"And who are you to determine what she is? Your rank, Qunari."

"Taarbas. And it is not I that made this determination. It was the Arishok whom I served seeking the Tome of Koslun. He declared her _basalit-an_. His letters to the others in the Triumvirate stated that, should she ever join the Qun, she would be _Qunoran Vehl_. I bear witness that she is, indeed, Qunari." Most of that was a complete bluff, but Taarbas hoped beyond hope that a _karataam_ based in a run-down _bas_ village had nothing but rumor to go on when it came to Qunari affairs of state. They were here as was their appointed duty, and that should have been all they needed to know.

The other Qunari stood there for what seemed like an age, his arms crossed over his broad chest, warpaint gleaming like blood. His violet eyes narrowed behind the slits of his helmet, the black iron casting the rest of his face in shadow.

"Show me your emblem of rank, Taarbas, that I might know you."

The emblem. It was on the ship, somewhere amongst Hawke's things. He kept his breathing even, but within him his heart was absolutely racing. To be without your emblem was to be without your soul. If this soldier learned that, Taarbas would be in his debt for as long as was deemed necessary to reclaim his honor. To admit that he had given his emblem to the woman in his arms would be an automatic sentence for Tamassran re-education. A soldier would never listen to the context to assure the validity of the action.

Taarbas inhaled one last deep breath to calm his fraying nerves. _Honesty,_ he reminded himself. _Honor is never lost through honesty._

"As you can see, _karasten_ ," he stated, his voice firm and forceful, letting through just enough irritation to make his point, "I am only half-dressed myself. This _viddathari_ has little more than a blanket. I am in a rush to find someone to heal her, and I would be loath to explain to the Ariqun and Arigena why they never had the honor to meet Serah Hawke, the Arishok's _basalit-an_ and soul-keeper. However, I _would_ be more than honored to explain to them how you delayed me in my duty."

So, the honesty came with a bit of embellishment. He would need to meditate to determine if the dwarf's influence was, indeed, a good one.

The other Qunari regarded him oddly at first, but something appeared to slowly dawn on him. "That?" he asked, "That is what killed the Arishok in a _tal-shok_?"

"Indeed."

Karasten scoffed. "By all means, get her healed, brother. And let me know when you do. _This_ is a story I need to hear." His voice trailed off as he took in Hawke's helpless form. She was still pale, still sleeping. Taarbas clutched her as tightly as he dared.

The soldier eventually walked away, muttering something to the others and all of them chuckling in response. They did not believe. Taarbas allowed himself an inward smirk. He knew of Marian's prowess with the blade even if it were improper for a female to wield. Just once, when she was better, he might let her fight to her heart's content and not tell of it later. He knew she would leave no witnesses. But that would be...dishonorable.

Isabela returned after a few more minutes of seemingly inane chatter with the old man.

"Well, she said brightly, the woman we need is not far. She lives in an old stone house down on the northern shore." She pointed behind them, as if they were supposed to be able to see through dozens of buildings. "The old man says the village calls her Adda."

"Adda?" Fenris asked curiously. "You say that like it's not her name."

"It isn't," the pirate replied with a shrug. "Like everything else in this part of the country, it's a title—a rank." She looked pointedly at Taarbas. "It means 'grandmother' in Rivaini."

"Then we go see this grandmother," the Qunari replied, heading off in the vague direction Isabela had indicated. He knew not where he was going, exactly, but he would trust his instincts to tell him when he got there.


	23. Adda Saarebas

There are very few that understand the true intelligence of a mabari. Isabela had been given a description of the house they looked for, but she had no idea so many others would be identical. Taarbas was rushing about on instinct. He headed directly for the northern shore and peered in every window, kicked in every door. Were it not for Varric dashing several paces behind them, breathlessly apologizing to startled occupants, anyone might have thought it to be a Qunari raid. Fenris had gone back to the ship. He heard the entire conversation between Taarbas and the Karasten and knew that they would need some form of proof to not be accosted later. There was more than one Qunari ship in the harbor, which meant there were far more than that single handful of warriors floating about the old city.

While the others were flailing about, Swoop had his nose to the ground. He was as familiar with " _saarebas_ " as he was the word "mage". He was well acquainted with the smell of Anders' clinic. If his mistress was hurt—which she very much was—that's the sort of place she should go. He was looking for the tell-tale scents of lyrium and elfroot. The closer they got to the water, the stronger the traces became. Eventually, he arrived at a house positioned on a bluff, ocean waves crashing into the layers of stone below. Elfroot grew rampant in beds around the base of the walls, embrium blooming red and brilliant from wooden boxes sitting on the open windowsills. The others still several yards behind him, Swoop felt it prudent to simply sit down. And wait.

Taarbas was the first to arrive, heaving breath and looking from the mabari to the doorway and back again with something resembling a commingling of confusion and amazement. He didn't hesitate long. Kicking out with his foot, he burst through the doorway, emerging into a single-roomed home occupied mostly by a large wooden table covered in foodstuffs and herbs.

A woman looked up and gasped, startled, clutching at her chest with a gnarled old hand. Her hair was a deep black veined with silver, and her eyes were a glowing amber. These she narrowed at the Qunari as he stood there with the limp form of Marian in his arms. She was not angry. It was more like she was analyzing him, looking him up and down. She slowly came around the table and stood before him, resting a hand on Marian's forehead and brushing hair away.

"Your kind does not often come to me," she commented to him, still keeping her attention focused on Hawke. She used a thumb to gently pry open the woman's eyes to get a better look at them, bobbing her head up and down as if something was obvious to her.

"My kind rarely feels they have need for one of your...of your..."

"I know you see magic as a curse, Qunari. There is no need for you to try to explain." The look she gave Taarbas was withering as she craned her neck to regard his face. She was not much taller than a dwarf, but it was evident that only age had made her so. Her back was bent, her body hunched. She had spent long hours hovering over work tables and cookpots, making her potions.

Isabela came into the room with Varric just then, their faces flushed with exertion and chests heaving with panting breaths.

"Adda," Isabela stated, leaning against the door frame to try to catch her breath. "My friend here might be dying. She was stabbed by a Crow assassin several days ago. It began bleeding again last night."

"More than a knife blade hurt this woman," the old woman replied, returning to her work table. It looked like she was prepared to ignore them entirely, but she was carefully getting things out of the way, clearing the table off. "The whites of her eyes are discolored. She was poisoned—did you know that?"

The pirate shook her head dumbly while Taarbas merely stared, waiting for the table to be clear so he could lay Marian upon it. Varric was the only one who bothered to say anything.

"If she were poisoned, it would have had to have been when she was stabbed. She's been absolutely fine, moving around, fencing, fighting, chasing things, escaping, falling in love, performing miracles..." Isabela elbowed him right in his hairy chest. "Look," he grunted, "the point I'm making is that there was no sign of poison. Ow." He gave the pirate a mockery of a glare.

"Well, there is. And maybe there always was, but you just didn't have the knowledge to see it." Adda gestured to the now empty table for Taarbas to lay Marian flat. He did so with a careful reverence, making sure her position was natural, her head supported by a piling of the sheet she was wrapped in.

The hedge witch set to work quickly. She bared Marian's wound without compromising the unconscious woman's decency. There was no festering, no further bruising. The tending Isabela and Taarbas had jointly performed was more than adequate. Adda held her hands over Marian's abdomen and closed her eyes in concentration, squeezing the lids shut tighter as her hands began to glow with a soft golden light. Taarbas instinctively stepped back away from the magic, his eyes widening and fixed on the woman on the table.

Isabela stepped forward hesitantly, watching the procedure around Taarbas' large form. Marian's body started to take on the same glow from the woman's hands. Gradually, oh so gradually, a blackish green mist began to snake out from the wound, curling around Adda's fingers. It continued to curl up her arm and around the old woman's body. There was so much. The pirate could not believe her eyes if all that mist was actually the poison that Marian had made no earlier sign that she felt.

Eventually, the poison stopped flowing forth, and Adda channeled it to a small bowl off to the side of the table. When she was finished, the bowl was completely full of a liquid akin to brackish water. The only change in Marian was the release of a long breath, as if she'd been holding it, but she did not inhale again.

" _Kadan?_ " Taarbas fell to his knees next to the table so that his face was level with Hawke. " _Kadan-tal?_ " Marian made no response. The Qunari leaped to his feet and was in the hedge witch's face in an instant. "You killed her, _saarebas_!"

Adda merely regarded him flatly, too used to Qunari to be intimidated. "So impatient you are," she muttered, turning away to the embrium growing in the nearest window. She combined one of the blossoms with dried elfroot and ground it all in a mortar and pestle. When she was satisfied, she poured in the contents of a small vial of a glowing blue liquid Isabela could only guess to be lyrium. When it was mixed, the witch jerked her head in the captain's direction.

"Prop her up a bit, dear. This needs to go down her throat."

"But...she's not breathing."

"All the better. It means she won't inhale it."

A low, guttural growl vibrated more than sounded forth from Taarbas.

Varric had long since decided to keep a healthy distance. Outside. With the dog. It gave him a better view, anyway, for whenever the elf finally joined them. He worried a bit, however, as Fenris was now the only one of the lot to not know exactly where they had found the witch. There was the sudden worry of more broken doors and shrieking women.

"Well, boy," the dwarf sighed resignedly. "We can either stay here and make sure the Qunari doesn't do anything stupid...or we could go find the elf and make sure _he_ doesn't do anything stupid."

Swoop looked from Varric to the scene within the house. Then, moaning as if from realizing that the choice wasn't much of one, he eased his front paws forward so that he was lying on the ground. He huffed a breath when he brought his head to rest upon them, keeping an eye on what was happening in the witch's house.

"Fine," Varric replied, drawing Bianca from behind his back and checking her draw and cocking ring. Seeing that all was well, he collapsed her again and resheathed her. "You watch Muscles and I'll go find the _other_ mage-hater. This day just keeps getting better and better..."


	24. A Whim and a Dare

Fenris walked casually through the town. Hawke's family shield was slung over his back, partially obscuring his Sword of Mercy. In one hand, he carried a burlap sack of her personal effects: the blouse, skirt, and corset she normally wore these days, her boots, and what could have only been Taarbas' emblem of rank that he'd found carefully placed amongst the portraits of her lost family. Sataareth was bound up again in the same torn piece of brocade. It had taken some doing (with a lot of cursing and splinters), but the elf had gotten the sword out of the wall in the aft castle. Now, all he had to do was find where everyone had gone.

The villagers appeared to be going about their normal routines despite the disturbance earlier. The square was bustling, now, with Rivaini and elves buying and selling and chatting. Qunari still stood about in places, singular or in pairs, now. It was almost as if they were acting as guards or, more likely, simply observing. Fenris had spent long enough in Seheron to learn their ways. Seere was the closest village to the colony of Kont-Aar. It was possible that plans for re-expansion were already in the works. The villagers didn't seem to mind their presence at all. More than once, he heard the Qunari tongue flow from the mouths of the Rivaini. More than once, he saw exchanges even between humans that rang of long-standing Qunari influence and tradition. If Seere was to be reabsorbed, it would happen without incident or a single drop of blood.

It might have already started.

Fenris continued walking, taking a road that led north. He remembered what Isabela had said about the witch's hut, and he was certain he would find it. All he had to do was follow the foul smell of magic. It was more difficult than he'd anticipated. As he made for the northern shore, the wind was not in his favor. Instead of blowing toward him, it blew off to the east, carrying anything to the rising sun.

He paused at a crossroads, looking to one side and then the other. It was an odd thing but not illogical that the people had confined themselves to homes along only the main streets, leaving the structures along cross streets empty and crumbling. But at the next cross street, as he peered down, he saw men working diligently at fixing up some of those more dilapidated homes. Qunari worked alongside them, unarmored and glistening with the sweat of their exertions. _Rebuild what you conquer_. The adage rang unbidden through his mind, a memory from Seheron.

Fenris looked from the workers and up to the mountainside, his eyes falling upon the Chantry that stood there, large and looming. He remembered how Sebastian had tried so hard to bring him to the Maker's embrace, to trust in the everlasting love of Andraste and her Chant of Light. Fenris had even gone to Elthina more than once to learn how to pray. But all of his prayers had gone unanswered. All of his hopes and pleading had fallen on deaf ears, the deaf ears of an ambiguous creator that no longer cared for what He had made. He glowered at the building, at the sun banners moving weakly in the wind. He understood Hawke's choice. What good was hope when it gave your life no meaning? What good was freedom if you didn't use it to serve some higher purpose? The voiceless Maker couldn't give anyone that. The Qunari could.

He continued on, following the road and the sight of the ocean beyond. He could already feel the sweat trickling down his back. The weather even so early in the morning was reaching a heat only possible in the tropics. The humidity was thick, the air saturated with the ocean's essence. Licking his lips to soothe them, Fenris could taste the salt that was clinging to him. It was a bad time to be wearing black leather, but there really wasn't much he could do about that.

As he walked, he began to see a head cresting a downward slope in the road in front of him. Blond hair. Square features. A few more paces from each of them, and they both halted. Fenris was pleased to see Varric as much as the dwarf was relieved to see him. The stout man happily waved and jogged over.

"You haven't been kicking in doors, have you?"

Fenris raised an inquisitive eyebrow, his lips flattening into a firm line. "No. There are much easier ways to start a fight."

Varric wiped his brow. "Good. That's one less care off my chest. Our Qunari friend was on a rampage to find the hedge witch. I worried that you might do the same."

"No, I really wasn't all that concerned about it," the elf replied placidly. In response to Varric's shocked expression, he continued, "You know as well as I that Bethany was the only mage Hawke ever let touch her. I don't doubt that this witch will heal her. That's not my worry." He adjusted the positioning of the shield on his shoulder. "What concerns me more is that Hawke might try to kill the hedge witch before I get there."

* * *

Isabela stood behind Marian's head as she held her up by the shoulders, providing enough leverage that Adda's potion slipped easily down her throat. There was no choice but to wait. The pirate held her friend, resting the side of her head on top of Marian's, as if she so desperately wanted to hug the woman back to life.

Taarbas stood stiffly just to the side of the door, his arms tightly crossed as if he were trying to not do something rash and stupid. Swoop had come creeping up beside him. The mabari whined softly as he sat against the Qunari's leg, seeking comfort in the fear that something terrible had happened. Taarbas looked down sharply, alarmed that the dog was nuzzling him but not having the slightest idea of what to do about it. He reached a hand down and laid it on the sleek brown fur of Swoop's head. It was enough.

A minute or two passed in this way. Not even Adda moved from where she stood, still clasping the empty bowl in her arthritic grip. Marian lay there limp, lifeless. Her pallid lips were slightly parted, but no breath went in or out.

Suddenly, Isabela stiffened, her eye growing wide as she jerked her head up to better regard her friend. The body was warm. No, it was hot with fever. And hotter. Horrified, the pirate let go, and Marian fell back onto the thin cushioning of the sheet with a _thunk_. Her skin was glowing. Her skin, her hair, the eyes behind her eyelids looked like they would burn their way out of her body. Taarbas instinctively reached for his staff and cursed through clenched teeth when he found it missing.

Another moment passed and a brilliant burst of light exploded out from Marian's prone form, blinding and forceful. Isabela was thrown backward, landing hard on the floor on the far side of the hut. Adda crashed into a shelf to the clattering of vials and jars of poultices. Taarbas was forced into the wall behind him, the breath knocked out of him and tiny white lights blurring his vision. By the time any of them knew what was happening, the witch was crying out, helplessly tugging at an arm around her neck.

Marian had the old woman in a firm choke hold.

"Who are you," the Champion demanded. "What did you do to me? Tell me!"

"I cured you of poison," Adda croaked, her face turning red from the strain.

"You lie! Tell me the truth or I'll kill you!"

"You wouldn't dare."

"I would on a whim, mage." Marian tightened her grip, her face contorted in a vicious snarl.

Isabela coughed and got to her feet, desperate to end the hostilities before it got worse. "Hawke, easy! She's telling the truth! We brought you to her to cure a fever. There _was_ poison."

Marian shot the pirate a deathly glare. "The only such thing was a drug the Crows coated their knives with. I was told it would wear off."

The other heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. "So, there it is, then. And who told you that? Castillon? You really need to stop listening to people who obviously only want to kill you."

" _Kost, kadan_ ," Taarbas said, his voice surprisingly gentle for how tense he'd been feeling. "The thief is right. And bringing you here was my idea."

Marian relaxed her grip but did not release it. She looked from her friends to the witch and back again, her eyes fiery, her skin still glowing. "But what did she _do_ to me?"

"I would think the answer is obvious."

Everyone looked at the sound of Fenris' voice. He stood in the doorway, his stance casual, the bound sword of the Arishok resting jauntily across his shoulder. He regarded the situation with his discerning green eyes and a whimsical half smile.

"She gave you lyrium, Hawke. A lot. Probably nearly as much as is burned into my skin." He dropped her belongings onto the table between them. "You're no mage...but you're not completely mundane, either. Your body is metabolizing it the only way it knows how. Through your Templar training." The hedge witch stiffened at the term. "Best thing for you to do is work it out of your system—something I could never do. I brought some things to help with that."

Marian's gaze fell to her effects on the table, her clothes, her shield and sword, even the bit of Taarbas' sash that peeked out from within the confines of the sack. She felt her body become hotter. The witch in her arms struggled as if to get away from the burning sensation. A moment later, there was another blinding light, and everyone in the room save Marian was once again thrown backward. She clutched her hands to her head, the witch scurrying away. She hadn't willed that. She hadn't willed that at all, and a look at Isabela was all she needed to know that she was slowly but surely hurting her friends.

"What do I do?" she whispered hoarsely, suddenly feeling a tremendous chill that was gradually building back into that uncomfortable, feverish burn.

Isabela had crawled over to Adda, comforting the old woman as they both sheltered from another burst of Marian's holy smite.

"Do as the elf tells you," the old hedge witch replied, finally coming to her senses again. "My medicine was in proportion to the toxin, bringing you back from the grip of death itself." Her eyes widened as Marian began to glow again. She hastily rose and dragged Isabela to her feet with her. They quickly made for the door.

Fenris was also outside already, and it was through the open window that he finished giving his instructions. "Get dressed. Arm yourself. Fight with me. There are some Qunari in the market that don't believe you were declared _basalit-an_. They also didn't believe Taarbas when he said you, too, were Qunari." Everyone ducked quickly as another blinding burst consumed Marian's body. "Now would be the perfect time to show them how you earned the right of being the Arishok's soul-keeper. Hurry."

Marian did as she was told. Not only did she want this to end and that she trusted Fenris with her life, but the lyrium in her system was making her feel agitated, restless, _itching_ for a fight with the piss-poor odds that she hadn't had since her final encounter with Knight-Commander Meredith. She dressed quickly and fastened on the leather straps that held her sword and shield to her back. The corset had been a problem, but Isabela helped, ducking in and out in the brief minutes between detonation. Before long, she was ready, racing out of the house and right up against Fenris' waiting battle stance. His lyrium markings shot through his body like lightning, and his sword flamed to life.

He was ready.


	25. Woman Can Fight

"You dare think you can win against me, slave?"

"I would win against you, human, even with my last breath!"

"Ha! I sincerely doubt it. You fight like my sister!"

"I've _fought_ your sister—that's a compliment!"

The unmistakable sound of steel on steel rang through Seere as loudly as the insults were shouted back and forth. Marian and Fenris were doing everything in their power to cause a stir, to attract attention, and Varric was following quickly behind, scribbling down notes on in a small book he had pulled from his pocket. No matter the race or country of origin, all had their eyes on the curious duo: an elf glowing with the blue flame of lyrium and dancing about in Tevinter leathers and a red-haired woman in a corset, spinning about on her toes like her frighteningly large sword and sharply angled shield were mere extensions of her being.

They clashed through main thoroughfares and side streets, up on low obstructions and even rooftops. Fenris dived into the heart of the market square and Hawke angrily followed him, sending out another burst of energy when her feet hit the ground. People were thrust back in a circle of collapsing bodies, no one truly injured, but it was enough of a warning to keep a healthy distance.

Taarbas had followed them from the witch's house, leaving Isabela and the dog to tend to the old woman and thank her while he made sure no undue problems were borne of this plan to tire Hawke back to normalcy. He trusted the elf, but he saw no reason to attract _this much_ attention to it. He had his sash wound about his waist again to avoid any further embarrassment of his own.

The market sang with spectators. Some were gasping with worry or confusion at the situation. Others, not having seen anything this exciting since the Qunari drove the imbeciles from the Chantry into hiding, picked sides and cheered enthusiastically. This carried on for several minutes. Fenris was obviously tiring, but Marian still suffered from uncontrolled bursts of will. They were less powerful and further spaced apart, but her skin still carried a faint glow, her body above-average heat, and her eyes burned like the green fire of embers.

A great stomping accompanied by the rattle of many pieces of armor silenced everyone and even made Fenris give pause. He motioned to Marian, and they stopped their mock battle. The woman spun about to come face to face with the dark and piercing stare of a Templar captain, a man of middling years flanked by no fewer than twenty other Templars and recruits. None of them were Rivaini. Imports, she figured, sent here out of fear by the Divine.

Unbidden, another wave of power burst out from her body, making the village spectators cover their eyes lest they be blinded. Only the Templars stood unaffected.

The Knight-Captain's ice blue eyes shifted from Marian's face to the blazon on her shield. A smirk crawled across his thin lips, cracking his rugged face in such a way that proved it was an unfamiliar expression.

"Serah Hawke," he purred, a tone Marian found more than a little disturbing. "I hear someone is looking for you."

The Champion gritted her teeth and lunged at him, stopping herself just as the jagged edge of her sword was against his throat, her shield pressed upward against his chest. All the other Templars drew their weapons and quickly surrounded her and Fenris both.

"Now, now," he went on, his hands raised in caution. "The Prince of Starkhaven wants you _unharmed_ upon your return to Kirkwall. We were also issued instructions by one Knight-Commander Cullen, insisting the same. I'm loath for it to be otherwise."

"Money sings, doesn't it?" Marian returned, her jaw unmoving as she spoke.

"I don't do this for the money," the Templar captain replied. "I do this to protect one of our own, to bring her back safely to the fold of Andraste's most holy grace." He looked up for a moment and twitched a finger. "Men, seize her and any of her companions."

There was no playing nice. In a fit of anger, Marian slit the man's throat. He had been far too proud to even think she'd actually go through with it. The others closed in tightly. Fenris batted a good number away, but they returned, lashing out with their combined will to nullify his lyrium markings. Varric managed to get onto a stack of crates and began firing off with Bianca. His efforts were rewarded by the Templars loosening ranks, spreading out and constantly moving to be more difficult targets.

Taarbas did nothing. He merely stood in the shade of a building, lazily leaning against it with his arms crossed and his face impassive. He had noticed the same _karataam_ from earlier, the Qunari soldiers keenly interested in the events unfolding but maintaining their distance. This mess was not theirs to fix. But the sword. They recognized the sword. They had heard the name of Serah Hawke. _Now_ , he thought to himself, allowing an inward smile, _they will believe_.

Marian, covered in the blood of the Knight-Captain, laid into the Templars surrounding her. Their powers of will were useless against her, but she still had the lyrium raging through her to an inhuman degree. She hacked and slashed at them, assaulting them with sword and shield with a lack of mercy so great, Andraste was probably weeping bitter tears if she was even bothering to pay attention. The recruits fell first. Their sword arms were still green and next to useless in a real fight. Those that didn't die crawled away with choking whimpers of self-pity. Varric made short work of them.

The Qunari gestured for the dwarf to cease from his position in the shade. Varric was confused for a moment before Taarbas motioned to his compatriots with his head. The small man climbed down from his perch and joined the giant against the wall.

"Does this have something to do with your little chat earlier?"

"It has everything to do with it. They will not believe me that she is even _viddathari_. The best I can hope for is that they see she is truly _basalit-an_."

"How do we tell the elf?"

"He knows."

"But _he's_ still fighting. Bianca's been lonely, and you're making me sit this one out."

"Fenris is also being judged, whether he is aware of it or not."

They watched the remainder of the battle unfold in silence. The crowd was cheering once more, this time fervently egging on Fenris and Marian to do away with the Chantry invaders, to not let them live, to not let their hubris taint the land. They fought with the instincts of a symbiotic pair, moving about each other back to back, cleaving and bashing at the enemy that so outnumbered them. Marian's shield gleamed like it was encrusted with rubies, covered as it was in blood and bone matter. Fenris' Sword of Mercy burned like a crimson sun, humming with the doom of anyone that had the misfortune to try to stand against it.

Before much longer, the Templars were dead. The human and elf were soaked in blood and sweat, their hair plastered to their faces and necks, and the ground about their feet a wasteland of destruction. Templar armor lay in unnatural heaps where the men wearing it had met their deaths, and swords and shields bearing Andraste's holy symbol lay scattered. The crowd had fallen silent.

There was a slow, resounding clap, followed by another and another. Marian and Fenris both looked to see the Karasten moving toward them from his place by his men. To the elf he gave a deep nod of respect, which Fenris returned. To Marian, he gave her a piercing stare.

She was used to this by now. He was looking both at her and into her, but it was not the comfortable prodding she knew from Taarbas. This one was strict and searching, looking for the part of her soul that gave a woman such skill and audacity.

"That one claims you are _basalit-an_ ," his deep voice stated flatly, gesturing to Taarbas. "He claims that you are the one who bested our last Arishok in single combat. A _tal-shok_. That it was the Arishok who so demanded it."

Marian almost sneered at him. "And the entire army that returned with the Tome of Koslun neglected to mention this?"

"They said the _basalit-an_ was female. Few were willing to believe it."

With a sigh, the Champion rested the heavy blade of her sword against her shoulder, looking about nonchalantly in every direction but that of the Qunari or her weapon. When he failed (or refused) to notice, she put all her weight on one hip and adjusted the hilt in her hand, causing the bloodied steel to catch the light of the potent tropical sun. He finally looked.

"Sataareth," Marian quipped. "Beheading infidels from Par Vollen to Kirkwall and still counting. Your Arishok wielded this. I remain his soul-keeper until I have the opportunity to speak to the Ariqun. _Karastenost_. _Maaras shokra. Anaan esaam Qun._ "

The Karasten's brow furrowed, and his glance shot over to Taarbas. The other Qunari merely shrugged, his expression still unreadable, but Varric got the distinct impression he was gloating the only way Qunari ever dared. The soldier returned his attention to Marian, his expression still hard but not uncompromising.

"The human female seeks Par Vollen?"

"The female _viddathari_ seeks Par Vollen," she corrected politely, her stance not changing. "With safe passage for my ship and crew if it is allowed. We have an important cargo of Qunari blades that must be returned."

"Only you and the one who claims himself Taarbas." The silver-gray eyes came to rest on Fenris. "And the elf."

Marian and Fenris looked at each other briefly before the Champion returned her attention to the Qunari soldier. "I also have a mabari warhound, a creature I'm told has a recent history of respect amongst the Qunari. He stays with me. If the others cannot also journey to Par Vollen, I request their safe harbor in Kont-Aar."

"That is not for me to decide," Karasten replied simply. "But if that is your wish, you journey there at your own risk. To Par Vollen, my ship would take you. To Kont-Aar...I will not go."

"Why not?"

"I wish you well in your journey, _viddathari. Panahedan_." Without another acknowledgment, he stiffly turned and strode back to his men. He issued them barking orders, and they rushed to obey, marching away toward the harbor. Later on that day their ship was seen sailing off, vanishing into the north beneath a blood red sky.


	26. Ben-Hassrath

"What would make Qunari warriors afraid to go to their own colony?"

Isabela stood in the witch's open window, one arm crossed over her chest to brace the opposite elbow. Her chin rested on her fist as she thought. But there was no use in thinking. The situation made absolutely no sense.

"I mean, really," she went on, gesturing grandly as she began to pace the room. "I thought Qunari viewed cowardice akin to death."

"They fear what all living things fear," Adda replied from where she was bent over Marian's stomach. The warrior was once more laid out on the table, but this time the old woman was carefully snipping the stitches free from her scarred but otherwise healed flesh. "They fear what they do not understand."

"And what is it they don't understand?" Fenris asked from where he and Varric sat on barrels at the other window playing what looked like a card game. The dwarf's expression was sour as if he were losing.

Adda looked over at them through her thin eyelashes. "If you knew their history, you would not wonder. The Qunari have never yet experienced a Blight—nothing like what happened in Ferelden and even less like what Rivain suffered so long ago." She returned to her work, gently tugging threads out of Marian as she continued her story. "Word came to us quickly with the first waves of refugees. There was a plague, something beyond the skill of their physicians to cure. The human and elven Qunari begged any of us with skill to see what we could do."

"Blight sickness?" Marian asked knowingly. There was a pang in her heart as she remembered her sister, how there had been nothing they could do for her. And Wesley, Aveline's husband. Both preferred death at the hands of a loved one than the fate that the disease would ultimately bring.

"The same," the witch replied, helping the woman to rise when she was finished. "Some of our men went to investigate. Very few returned, claiming the land was crawling with darkspawn and ogres. Since, Qunari messengers journey back and forth, usually bringing more refugees and requesting aid of those warriors sent here from Par Vollen."

Marian straightened her clothing and Isabela helped her put the corset back on. She scowled. "I asked a _karataam_ to take us to Kont-Aar just earlier. They refused."

Adda shook her head. "Under other circumstances, I would be surprised. But the last we heard out of Kont-Aar was dire, indeed. The sickness is making those infected rise against those that aren't. The darkspawn are capable of speech—foul, eloquent speech. The Qunari are not superstitious, but they are used to knowing their enemy well before fighting it. A sword can do nothing in the face of disease."

There was no contesting that. But in the mind of a survivor of Lothering, of one who had been to the Deep Roads and back, there was, indeed, a way to fight back Blight sickness with a sword...and that was to take the battle right to the source somewhere deep below the earth. Clear the darkspawn from their lair, and the land above could still be salvaged, the people saved.

But it would be so much easier with a Grey Warden. And Marian killed the last one they knew.

It was then that Taarbas returned from running errands in the village. His arms were laden with parcels, and a mesh bag of foodstuffs hung from one wrist. He set all these things on the table Marian had recently abandoned and began to sort them out into groups. The food the witch immediately took to prepare supper for the lot of them. There were fresh vegetables, red cuts of meat, a loaf of sweet-smelling bread. After so long at sea consuming little but gruel and water, even Isabela's stomach growled in anticipation.

The other items were packs and supplies as if for a long overland journey. One parcel in particular, however, the Qunari handed directly to Marian.

"I was entrusted to give this to you, _kadan_ ," he said with little ceremony. "The village is grateful to you for ridding them of the _basra_ warriors."

Marian accepted the parcel with a quizzical expression. It was heavy, apparently several items wrapped in a soft lavender fabric trimmed with crimson. She set it on the table to discover the contents, and was surprised by what she saw. The wrapping was a long and tailored tunic bearing the emblem of the House of Tides. The heavier items were pieces of molded leather, tanned a deep crimson and woven. There was a small breastplate obviously made for a female form, arm guards and shoulder pauldrons, a pair of black leather leggings, and woven leather greaves.

"They had belonged to a Ben-Hassrath who was killed by those same Templars. Her _karataam_ saw it fitting to pass them to you."

The woman looked up at him, confused. "You said female Qunari were not permitted to fight."

"They are not warriors; they are not aggressive. They do not challenge males to duels. They do, however, defend. Some even with swords. This we do not simply tell to _bas_ or even _viddathari._ We do not willingly put our females at risk, but we do not deny any Qunari her purpose. Someone saw fit to think this would be yours."

Marian held the armor up against her to check the fit. The tunic, the leggings, the greaves...everything was sized for a human or even an elf. "Are your women always this small?" she asked. Her tone was one of innocent curiosity but her eyes gleamed with mischief.

"Change," he grunted at her. "I will be outside." He tossed parcels at the others and motioned for them to follow him. Only Adda remained inside with Marian to help her. There was no way she was about to let herself be booted from her own house.

When she was dressed, Marian tried to get a sense of what she looked like. The breastplate was not a full one, merely various crossings of studded leather that covered only the most vital bits. The shoulder pauldrons were smaller versions of what she'd seen Qunari soldiers wear, each stamped with a white blazon of the House of Tides. The tunic had bell sleeves that hung just below the elbow, the leather arm guards covering the rest to the back of her hands. The length of the tunic reached her knees and tapered inward once past the hips. It was as if it had been cut for riding. She put the greaves on over her own boots, and the fit was snug. Despite being unaccustomed to leather, it felt comfortable, allowing for a great ease of movement while leaving her feeling less exposed than the corset.

"If this doesn't get me safely into Kont-Aar," she breathed, "I don't know what will."

"Indeed," the witch replied, returning to her task of preparing supper. Already the pot boiled and the savory smell of a beef stew was carried on the steam. "Hurtled into the chaos, you fight...and the world will shake before you."

Marian spun on her. "What?"

Adda met her gaze solidly but her tone conveyed hesitation. "I'm sorry. It was what came to mind when I looked at you."

"No. I've heard those words before. From Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds."

"Ah, so you've met her." The witch sipped at a spoonfull of the stew, thought a bit, then added a pinch of an unknown herb from her mortar and pestle. "Here, she is known as Manadda—the Ancient One."

Marian's face screwed up in confusion. "You know, most people don't believe me when I mention the old crone, yet you take it as casually as if we were discussing the weather! By the way, it's a beautiful day outside, thank you very much."

Adda continued as if she had not been interrupted. "Our legends have it that Manadda once lived among us. It was she who trained the Rivaini peoples in the secrets of speaking and calling upon spirits. Of steeling our minds against those who would possess them. If there is one thing your Chantry could never get through its thick skull, it is that hedge witches here _never_ resort to blood magic."

"But what does any of that have to do with you saying-"

"Manadda's words are potent. Spirits hear. And they whisper. Those of us who know how to listen hear her voice no matter where in the world she might be. To be completely honest, I haven't slept much in the past several weeks." She began to ladle stew into wooden bowls. Marian unconsciously started to clear and set the table as if it were no different than her mother's house in Lothering. "You see, the happenings in Kirkwall left a massive impression on the Fade...and I received word of it long before you set foot on this shore."

Marian peered at her in disbelief. "You mean to say you've been waiting for me?"

"No," the witch replied tritely. "But now that you're here, I was hoping you could clarify this whole 'Justice is returned' business. Murietta—she lives up the street—comes to me rather frequently to communicate with her dead husband. A ruin he was restoring collapsed on him, poor soul. But when I try to find him in the Fade these days, all I get is this maddening chorus shouting about justice, and nothing gets sorted. Murietta has started to think her husband did something terrible to deserve his fate."

The Champion maintained her silence as she took bowl after bowl from the old woman and set them about the table. She then drew over barrels, boxes, anything tall enough that could be used as a seat. When all was ready, she took a step outside to see if she could find the others. She had expected them to be near the front of the house, but Swoop's joyful barking tugged her in the direction of the beach not a hundred yards from the door.

Isabela was throwing sticks and rocks, anything for the mabari to chase after, bring back, and fight over when the pirate tried to take the item back to be thrown again. Taarbas and the others sat on a high dune, tall stalks of feathery grass blowing about them. They were in a circle looking to be sorting through things, trading items, and filling satchels. Marian approached them, first.

"Supper is ready," she announced, mounting the dune in long strides, the strong sea breeze trying to pull her hair free of its bun.

All three men looked up at her, Varric twisting in his position, a grin spreading across his face. "That's the Hawke I remember," he said brightly, motioning for her to have a seat next to him. "For as pretty as it made you look, I really wanted to tell you that corsets aren't practical when it comes to fighting Templars. They aren't easily swayed by the female form."

Marian punched him playfully in the shoulder. "You're one to talk. It's not like that hair on your chest deflects arrows."

"You don't know that for certain," he replied with a wink. "After all, have you _ever_ seen me be shot in the chest?"

The woman had to concede the point. In fact, she'd never seen the dwarf shot at all let alone in the chest. He was a professional when it came to not making himself a target.

She watched for a minute more as the three men finished what they were doing. They had been sorting through the supplies Taarbas had found at the market and packing for the journey to Kont-Aar. It had been discussed after the incident in the square that taking ship would not be in their best interests. Not only was the port likely under quarantine and not allowing anyone in, but they could simply not risk losing the _Hawke's Flight_. It was already being refitted and repainted, the name reworked in an older Rivaini dialect to thwart any bounty hunters. In the course of one morning, it was determined that nowhere was safer for Hawke to be than in Seere, the city the rest of Thedas forgot.

"The armor does suit you, _kadan_ ," Taarbas mentioned to her quietly after they'd gathered up their things and summoned Isabela. The Qunari lagged behind the others as they returned to Adda's hut. "I know not what the Tamassrans will have in store for you when we reach Par Vollen, but in the meantime..." he heaved a breath as if steeling himself for something he felt unpleasant or inappropriate, "...your talents as a warrior cannot be ignored."

"I know an entire city that would agree with you," she replied with undisguised irony. She smiled at him, though, the sun setting on the horizon. The light cast her hair like fire and his skin like living gold, and the silence that fell between them held all the comfort of a lifelong camaraderie.


	27. Asari

It would take them a full day to reach Kont-Aar by keeping to the main road. There was really no other option. The northern peninsula of Rivain was naught but exposed coastline, dense jungle, or impassable mountains. Taarbas had prepared them as best as he could, but they could find no native of Seere to be willing to guide them. They had to go on the Qunari's knowledge of jungle predators in Par Vollen and hoped some of that could apply here.

Taarbas returned his sash to Marian, telling her again to guard it or lose all honor. He hadn't been prepared for what she had in exchange.

While the kossith was making sure everything was ready to go, that everyone each had a satchel with food and other supplies, Marian strode out of Adda's hut with two swords strapped to her back and her shield on her arm. Taarbas could only stare at the woman, his body caught in mid-action and his mouth frozen mid-sentence. She looked every inch Qunari, for those blades on her back were Sataareth and the Basrath-Kata. The red sash was wrapped several times and tied about her waist, the ends still hanging to her knees. Her stride was long, proud, her face stern and her shoulders squared. Isabela, whom Taarbas had been speaking to before the unexpected interruption, grinned wickedly to herself and smacked the kossith in the arm with the back of her hand.

"She's only a female, you know," she whispered. "It's nothing to get your knickers in a knot over."

That snapped him out of it. Taarbas blinked rapidly and turned to Isabela. "Knickers...?"

The pirate politely shushed him and pointed subtly to where Marian was quickly arriving to meet them. Without much ceremony, the Champion stood before Taarbas, acknowledged all her companions in turn, and then addressed the other Qunari directly. She took her family shield from her arm and presented it to him with both hands. " _Kadan, fal roh eshaan. Ebra asala tal. Menastenta toh thes._ "

Taarbas stared at her for a moment, searching her eyes, before he took the shield from her and swung it over his back. " _Meravas, kadan_."

Marian then turned to the rest, a bright smile on her face. "Are we ready, then?" And even though none had the wits about them to respond, the Champion began to head up the hill, Taarbas close behind.

"What was _that_?" Varric exclaimed when he finally found his voice. "Elf, please tell me you know what that was all about."

"She entrusted her honor to him," Fenris replied, his brow furrowed a bit. "As he has evidently entrusted his to her."

"That's adorable!" Isabela beamed.

"No," the elf retorted. "You misunderstand. If either of them dies in battle, the other must fight until all that enemy is destroyed or die trying. Not just a band, not just an army— _all_ the enemy. If she dies at the hands of Tal-Vashoth, Taarbas is obligated to hunt down and kill all Tal-Vashoth that remain, whether or not they had anything to do with her death. It is not 'adorable', Isabela. It's ritual suicide."

Varric gulped at that prospect. Given that they were about to engage darkspawn, he didn't like the thought of Marian wandering the Deep Roads for the rest of her days if something went wrong. She was a fine warrior but certainly no Gray Warden. Alone, she wouldn't last a day. Taarbas he wasn't nearly so worried about. The Qunari always did scare the piss out of him.

The trio rushed to catch up.

Swoop was already obediently trotting at his mistress's side, though he frequently darted off to investigate some of the children in the village. He would come back periodically with a toy or a branch. Once, he wound up with a stocking stuck in his teeth. The woman it belonged to angrily came up and attempted to rip it away from him, but to no avail. He wound up with one half and she the other, and the poor Rivaini had to be content with that. Almost like it was a show of his victory, Swoop marked the foundation of her house with his scent, huffed, and trotted back to Marian.

A good number of the villagers had turned out to see them off. The rumor that they intended to aid Kont-Aar had spread quickly, and there was a nervous sort of anticipation in the market square. Qunari warriors remained on post, spaced ten yards apart along the length of the street. The other refugees had come out of hiding now that the Templars were gone. Women and children, craftsmen and farmers, kossith and elf and human. Even a dwarf or two was spotted amongst their numbers.

Where the Rivaini were known for their ostentatious dyes even on the simplest of garments, the Qunari all wore the same muted hues. The same lavenders and crimsons, grays and dusty blues, even things that were black had the essence of charcoal rather than pitch. Their clothes were practical in cut and fit and seemed to have as much to do with their occupations as their names. Farmers, male or female, wore long black trousers and gray tunics, sashes of a darker gray wrapped and tied about their waists. Others wore similar attire but with deep crimson vests blazoned with their emblems of rank. Others, male and female both, wore long robes of varying colors with stoles or thick belts or headdresses. Marian wasn't about to try to guess what they were.

There was a bit of a commotion off to one side, the crowd moving chaotically as if someone were trying to push his or her way through. An arm poking over heads and waving frantically supported this theory, and, eventually, a voice carried over the murmuring din.

" _Banisera_!" It was a woman's voice, and the face and body that eventually pushed through the throng was that of a kossith. She was lithe and tall, long white hair bound up in a thick braid that trailed down her back and past her waist. Small but elegant horns flowed along the curve of her skull. Her eyes were a piercing amber-gold and her skin a lighter shade of the same. There was still the familiar gray of other kossith but only in the undertone. Marian found it startling given that her impression of the kossith to date had been starkly monochromatic.

" _Banisera_ ," the woman said again breathlessly as she stepped up to Marian, the warrior needing to look up just a bit to meet her eyes. "You will need me."

Taarbas immediately shouldered his way between them. "The people here will need you more, _asari_. This is not your place."

"Do you mind?" Marian asked humorlessly, doing what she could to push her Qunari companion out of the way. "She was addressing me." Taarbas stiffened as if remembering his place and muttered an apology. The Champion turned back to the female. "You are _asari_?"

"A physician, yes." She awkwardly straightened her dusk blue robes that were covered by a white and crimson sleeveless surcoat and thick golden belt. "I have been studying the plague since the people began to fall ill. You will need me."

"I already know how to deal with the Blight disease."

"In a way that will save lives or destroy them?"

Asari's gaze was hard. She even crossed her arms over her chest as if she expected a challenge. From her stance and tone, Marian got the impression that this was not the first time someone had tried to argue with her on this point. It was an argument the kossith Qunari woman was not about to lose.

"Well," Marian continued a little more gently, "unless you know of any Gray Wardens about or how to create one, our options are very limited."

"I know of the Gray Wardens. One of our people even journeyed with your Hero of Ferelden to stop the Blight. Never before had we encountered such a thing, but he has told the Trimvirate all he could. My _inistaam_ was sent to study it."

" _Inistaam_?"

Taarbas cleared his throat. "Where the military has _karataam_ and _beresaad_ , the Tamassrans have orders called _inistaam_. They are divided by profession."

Asari nodded to let him know that the interruption was acceptable. "I was sent with one other _asari_ and three _ashkaari._ " Her voice faltered, and she mashed her lips together to collect herself. "I am all that survives. However, Asari worked until the vile song rang in her ears. She told me of her dreams and the things she saw, told me what was starting to repel her, and always how she felt. We wrote it all down, but the _karasten_ would not allow me to grab up my books during the evacuation. I need to get those notes back—I'm certain that a cure is there!"

Isabela stepped up next to her friend, leaning over so that Marian's were the only ears her words carried to. "I really think we should bring her along. One, I'm definitely not opposed to a physician—a healer, even—after all we've been through lately. Two, another woman balances out the ranks a bit. I think that's reason enough."

Marian could not help the smile. The pirate's suggestion brought back memories of the two of them traipsing about Kirkwall with Aveline and Bethany. It had to have been the deadliest combination of women in all of Thedas. Two soldiers, a powerful apostate, and a deadly, back-stabbing sea rogue. Varric had written an installment of _Hard in Hightown_ just for them: _Femmes Fatales in Hard Iron_. It had something to do with escaping the slavish conditions of an Orlesian nobleman's brothel. Marian hadn't really paid too much attention beyond how much Aveline griped about it.

"Gentlemen?" Marian called over her shoulder to the others. "Do you have any opinions?"

Varric was busily scribbling something in his little book, clearly inspired by something. "You're not going to hear me turning down an offer of help. But can she _cook_? I'd really like to know that. Because, to be honest Hawke, I'm about to kidnap Adda and drag her along, too."

Fenris shrugged. "I'd think there to be no argument on the matter. She knows Kont-Aar; she knows what we're up against. But can she hold her own? She is no _saarebas_ , and I see no weapon."

"I promise that I won't be a burden," Asari said, her hands up in defense. "I can make _gaatlok_. And poisons. And I'm told I'm adept at killing with kindness. A dwarf merchant told me that, but I don't know what it means."

"Right." Varric made a show of jotting something down. "Will likely poison us with dinner and smile sweetly in the process. Can we keep her?"

Marian laughed aloud. "I guess that settles it, then." She smiled broadly at Asari. "We'll help you get these notes of yours, and you make sure we don't die. Sound like a deal to you?"

The female kossith's face practically lit up, her square white teeth gleaming amidst the gold of her face. "I won't disappoint you, _banisera_ , I promise! Just let me get my things!" She hitched up her skirts and made a dash back into the crowd. There was more chaos, some shouting, and one elven laborer went flying into a wagon of cabbages. Hawke and the others all winced at the sound of splintering wood and curses in elvhen.

"What exactly does ' _banisera_ ' mean?" Marian asked Taarbas, trying to distract herself from the thought that she'd just found another version of Merrill. Innocent, clumsy, but with blackpowder instead of blood magic. She wasn't sure which was worse.

"It is a title applied to one believed worthy of following." There was an explosion of feathers as a cage of chickens was knocked over. Asari was on her way back. "Are you certain of this, _kadan_?"

"Only my duty is certain," the woman replied with a surety in her voice that was not expressed on her face. "And I need all the help I can get."


	28. Into the Heart of Darkness

Travel along the road through the jungle was quiet. Certainly, there were sounds made by all the things that lived in the canopy and upon the ground, but it was nothing that Marian had ever heard. For the first couple of hours, she and Isabela maintained the side guard with their weapons drawn, constantly maintaining vigil on the vast and dense expanse of living green. Taarbas had point, his eyes keen for anything that didn't belong on the road. Fenris kept up the rear, his sharp ears listening for anything sneaking up behind them, be it darkspawn or a jaguar yearning for a snack.

Varric was the first to break the silence. He and Asari were in the very center of the group, the dwarf armed with a primed Bianca and doing anything he could to calm himself down. The shrieks of the things Taarbas called monkeys were really starting to get to him. He claimed that Bianca wanted to shut them up.

"So," he began, his voice a gruff whisper, "when you worked with this other Asari and three _ashkaari_ , did you ever get confused?"

"I'm sorry?" Asari looked down—way down—at him. At best, he came up to her elbow.

"You know. There were five of you, and you shared all of two names. If you needed one _ashkaari_ and called out for him or her...did they all come running? Or when you talked to Asari. Did it ever feel like you were referring to yourself in the third-person?"

"Third-person?"

"Never mind."

"No, I mean it. I'd like to know what this 'third-person' is so that I can answer your question."

Varric patiently explained. It actually turned into a bit of a lecture on literary practice and grammar, his own words flowering with verbosity as he leaped into example after example. He drew quite heavily from his stories of Donnen Brennicovick, especially after he found out that Asari was keenly interested in the fictional guard's adventures. She especially liked the story where the hard-boiled guardsman had been forced to partner up with the mysterious Black Fox. _Hardest to Fall_ had been about the discovery and annulment of a group of thieves, all of them rogue blood mages, in order to rescue the beautiful Lady Jacqueline de Charlemagne.

"But what do they mean?" Asari asked when the dwarf was finally finished.

"What does what mean?"

"The names. There were so many different names in that story...certainly they mean something?"

Varric shrugged. "It depends. Orlesians usually name themselves after where they come from. Thieves—like the Black Fox—take on false names so that the law has a harder time tracking them down. It also sounds more dramatic. People in the Free Marches possess names that tell you right away what sort of personality they have."

"Then, I'd say that's a lot more confusing than having three people with the same name when their name is their rank and they all serve the same purpose. If I needed one of them, any could answer and it would still get the job done."

"And the other Asari?"

"She was a separate person from me. I knew I wasn't talking to myself or about myself."

"And that, Goldie, is all I wanted to know." The dwarf winked up at her, a playful grin on his face.

A hush fell over the group. When Varric cocked his head to listen, he quickly learned why. The entire jungle was silent. No monkeys, no birds, no wind to blow the oppressive humidity away. Taarbas had his staff drawn, the bladed end facing forward along the road as he adopted a spearman's stance. Fenris had, likewise, taken up a defensive stance facing the way they'd come, his lyrium markings sizzling and all aglow. Marian and Isabela both looked particularly vicious, each with her duo of aptly named blades. The dwarf decided it a good time to ready a few more bolts. In his mind, there was no such thing as overkill.

That's when it happened. Out of the thick foliage to the front came a low rumbling, which turned into a fierce growling, which turned into a thunder of feet and a fierce growling. When Varric caught sight of the thing, he nearly lost himself to a wave of fugue, where he nearly lost track of where he was, who he was with, and what in the Void he was doing. Out of the thick brush came pounding the biggest ogre he had ever seen. Granted, it was probably only the seventh ogre he'd seen in his life, but it was even more massive than the ones they'd encountered in the Deep Roads. The gigantic creature had black horns that rivaled the branches of the most ancient trees. Its skin was a sickly purple, and it was only by the good grace of the ancestors that it wore a stained leather loincloth. It roared when it caught sight of them, foul spittle flying from its mouth.

Taarbas yelled something in the Qunari language and charged, Hawke and Isabela close behind him. Fenris hung back just in case the creature decided to charge at Varric while the dwarf shot off bolt after bolt that seemed to do nothing but irritate their foe. It wasn't long before Marian was picked up and thrown, flying back past Fenris and crashing into a tree. Asari rushed to her side, checking first for broken bones before she addressed any cuts or bruises. Fortunately, Marian was merely stunned, squeezing her eyes shut until the vertigo passed.

The ogre wasn't going down. Worse, there was further rustling in the brush as more darkspawn came at them from the jungle ahead. Soon, there would be a swarm. Fenris finally rushed in to help Taarbas and Isabela, swinging his Sword of Mercy like he didn't care if he killed his foes so much as hit them fast and hard and preferably somewhere vital. Varric listened as best he could and took aim. He fired a bursting shot into the trees where the loudest noises were coming from. When the bolt struck, it ignited and exploded, sending several darkspawn grunts sprawling backward.

"We've got company!" he shouted, loading another round and trying to conceal his friends with a smokey haze.

Marian got back to her feet and rushed forward, her swords taking out hurlock after genlock as she carved her way back to the ogre. It was hopeless. More kept coming, and even the greatest of heroes were only mortal and could be overwhelmed in the right circumstances. This was one of those. Varric rapidly began planning his eulogy. _Alas, poor Varric. I knew him well, Ignacio._ Overdone? Probably. He fired off a hail of bolts upon the swarm. _No such thing as overkill_ , he reminded himself. _We're still_ _standing. We're still here._

Suddenly, the ogre exploded.

Everyone was shoved back by the concussive force as the broad chest of the creature blew apart in a ball of flame. Blood and darkspawn guts rained from the tree limbs as the only sign that something had been there. Another explosion came from the trees, more darkspawn parts and ash sailing through the air like gruesome dust on the wind. Those that remained alive shrieked with ear-piercing fury and scurried back the way they had come, seeking the shelter of their familiar underground.

When all was once again quiet, the others got up from where they lay sprawled on the ground. All but Asari. She stood there in the middle of the road, the front of her spattered with ash and blood, a grim expression on her face. In one hand, she held open the satchel slung across her shoulder. In the other was a dark ball of iron bigger than a human fist and largely unassuming. Varric knew it for what it was. Dwarven grenades were not so different.

"Question." He walked over to her as he cleaned Bianca off and collapsed her. "What does your job consist of again?"

Asari was startled at his voice, as if her mind had been elsewhere, somewhere dark. "Hmm? Oh! I tend the sick, educate the young, craft medicines, and exhort the teachings of the Qun to any that need to hear its wisdom."

"Okay, so how would you say 'Priestess of Boom' in Qunari?"

" _Qunra-Pah._ "

Varric's face split with the biggest grin he had ever managed in his whole life. Gleefully, he turned to Hawke and asked her again, with much more enthusiasm this time, " _Can we keep her?_ "


	29. Swoop's Adventure

Swoop was bad. He knew this. He could sense it. He knew his mistress would soon be looking for him, but he had caught a whiff of something in the air. Something old. Something wrong. He'd had his nose to the ground for over an hour, now, trying to follow whatever it was and not get distracted.

Monkeys!

He shook his head when something hit him. It was sloppy and smelled horrid. Like...he looked down...yes, like that. There was a scream from somewhere up above him. His ears perked and he whipped his head upward. There, in the branches of a tree thick with foliage was a patch of dark brown fur with a white, flat face. It looked almost human. Curious. It had friends, and they all started screaming at him, making faces and pointing wrinkly, leathery fingers. Swoop huffed and kept walking.

Monkeys...

The brambles were thick, but he found a path. The scent carried along that same path. Was it an animal, then? Some creature large enough to trample the underbrush that might have come through here several times? It didn't smell like anything he knew, but that meant nothing where he was. Monkeys didn't even smell like anything he knew. Except their excrement did remind him a little of that hog farm just outside of Lothering. He didn't miss that smell.

The wood around him grew more silent the further along the path he ventured. The monkeys stopped howling and screaming. The birds stopped their chatter and twittering songs. Even the air grew still, no wind, like all the trees held their breaths at his approach...or out of fear of what lay up ahead.

He emerged in a small clearing. The brush had been cut away and moved or burned, small tents of canvas erected upon the brown carpet of the exposed forest floor. The smell he'd been following was strongest here, and even his mabari mind regretted learning why. A kossith woman's body lay collapsed beside an extinguished firepit, a cauldron of stew gone cold. Her flesh was wasting away, and the flies had moved in. Near her were two others, horned males that had died at their posts, one having apparently fallen on his sword. Accident or suicide, the dog had not the skill to know.

His ears caught a soft whimpering. Immediately lowering his nose to the ground, he followed both the sound and the weak scent of life he was picking up. It led him around the firepit and into one of the tents. Other dead bodies were here. Children. Barely longer than he was, human, helpless. They lay on a cot upon the ground, holding hands as looks of pain were frozen on their withering faces. The whimpering was from just beyond them.

Swoop softly padded over to what looked like a small box made of a dark wood. Inside was a bundle of woven cloth, large strands of something silky creating a pattern in violet and crimson. Through a gap in the folds, he could see a tiny face, eyes squinted shut, nose wrinkled, little lips working as if trying to cry. It was a baby. And it reeked of that terrible smell.

Something old. Something wrong.

Deftly, Swoop dipped his head into the makeshift cradle and grabbed up the folds of blanket in his jaws, carrying the babe in his teeth like it was his own pup. He left the camp quickly and followed the trampled trail back to the road. As he trotted along, the babe's whimpers grew into a proper mewling, and that sound, he knew, would attract all sorts of undue attention should the wrong things be around to hear. When he found the road again, he broke into a run in the direction his mistress's scent was the strongest.

He clawed his way to a stop when there was a horrendous thundering noise. Pebbles clattered on the cobbled road around him as a second boom echoed the first. There was terrible shrieking around him as the monkeys and birds fled in terror, racing through the treetops in any direction that would take them _away_. Huffing a breath, Swoop bolted forward again, ignoring the cries of danger from the other animals. Where there was danger, he would find his mistress. There had never been any question about that.

The smell returned. Not from the babe but from up ahead. It reminded him of dank caves, of that place he'd heard the others call the Deep Roads. It was the odor of ancient evil, and the air was thick with it. He halted again when he saw the blood rain. The trees wept with a blackish red liquid, and it soaked the road in front of him for several yards. Following the trail with his eyes, he finally spotted Marian and the others, and his stub of a tail wagged instinctively when he saw that everyone was alright. They sat along the edge of the road using rags to desperately try to wipe themselves clean of the darkspawn filth.

He chuffed around his mouthful of blanket and trotted forward, careful with his bundle as he lightly stepped through the puddles of blood and...no, he wasn't going to want to eat for a while after seeing _that_. Even he had his limits.

Marian walked over to him when she saw him approach. She was smiling and holding out her hands for what he'd found. Yes, Swoop was bad for running off like he did. But when the baby calmed after coming to rest in Marian's arms, the mabari knew he had done something good.


	30. "Grey" Wardens

"What are we going to do with it?"

Isabela was peering over Asari's shoulder as the Qunari inspected the tiny baby the mabari had brought them. The skin was pale and sickly, tiny black veins running along translucent temples and into a thin mess of dark hair. The baby was human.

"With _her_ ," Asari corrected matter-of-factly. "Even we don't refer to children as 'it'."

"Fine then. What are we going to do with _her_?" The pirate motioned around her to the sea of blood and guts they'd so recently created. "This isn't exactly play time at the market square."

"I'll tie her to me," the Qunari physician replied calmly, doing exactly that with Taarbas to help her. "Qunari children are often taken to the battle front to see what it is that we do. Besides, we have little choice. This little one is infected with the plague." She turned to Varric. "Please, find me some _saareth_ and a new-growth sprig of _mestila_. I will also need a canteen of water."

Varric merely blinked back at her helplessly. Fenris immediately came to his rescue.

"Elfroot and spindleweed. Of course. Such would be common in these woods, yes?"

Asari nodded, her face brightening into a smile. "They prefer sunnier places. The rock formation we passed not too long ago probably has some growing around it."

The elf bowed quickly and walked off, Varric close on his heels to still attempt to remain useful.

Only Marian had been silent after turning care of the baby over to Asari. She had seen the House of Tides emblem woven into the blanket. She had seen the milky dimness in the little girl's eyes when she finally opened them. Marian was choked with memories of the children in Lothering, the ones who had barely escaped from near Ostagar only to fall victim to the darkspawn later. All the young lives the Champion had been unable to save as even she and her family fled. For something so young to become a ghoul and succumb to the taint was an injustice she simply could not abide.

She watched as the blanket was tied around Asari's waist and shoulder to form a snug and stable pouch. The kossith woman was able to still cradle the babe with her arm should the need arise, but it otherwise kept her hands free and the child secure no matter what she had to do. It was a burden they had not expected, but it made Asari's drive to reach Kont-Aar ever stronger. Speed was of the essence. If this child died in their care without anything being done to stop it, there was no telling if any of them—Qunari or otherwise—would ever be able to redeem their honor. Especially in their own eyes.

They moved out as soon as the elf and dwarf came back with the medicinal herbs. Asari walked and ground them into a paste at the same time, mashing the fresh leaves with a stone in the palm of her hand. The party resumed its previous positioning with Taarbas in the lead with Marian and Isabela at either side and Fenris to the rear. The only difference was that Swoop now meandered between them, moving from one side of the road to the other behind Taarbas to keep his senses alert for what lay beyond the road.

When the paste was made, Asari scraped it into the round glass bottle of pure water she kept at her waist. Isabela had refilled it from her own canteen and watched closely what the Qunari did as they walked. The paste dropped into the water with a light plop, a greenish red mass that very slowly dissolved into the surrounding liquid in much the same manner as tea. Asari corked the bottle and gave it a good shake to speed up the process. Once the medicine was adequately diffused, she reached into her satchel and drew forth a small pouch of folded paper, pouring a small amount of a glittering powder into the bottle and swirling it about. The color of the water almost immediately shifted from a green-brown to a rich violet.

Asari smiled and urged the baby to drink.

Isabela raised a curious eyebrow. "I used to give a cabin boy I had once swigs of Antivan brandy. Okay...so, once or twice I let him get away with the whole bottle. Anyway. Please tell me that whatever you're doing is healthier."

"Of course it is," the physician replied, her smile warm as she gazed down at the child, its mouth thirstily drinking. "The herbs are a potent medicine on their own. I also added mountain sugar. It helps everything go down easier."

"Does it always change the color of things you add it to?" Varric asked, also peering over at the goings on beside him. "If it does, keep it away from any other dwarves. Especially merchants. They'd be all over that and selling it out from under you in an Orlesian minute."

Asari shook her head. "Not always. But it does help us know when we get a medicinal mixture exactly right. Our scholars are still trying to figure out exactly how it works, but I think it has a lot to do with the fact that mountain sugar is a crystallized substance that forms only in dragon nests."

The pirate visibly gagged. "Maker, tell me you're joking! You just gave that baby a load of dragon sh-"

"Sugar," Varric quickly finished. "And we're going to leave it at that."

The journey for the rest of that day was blissfully quiet. The usual animal noises eventually returned when they realized that no more bombs were going to go off. But the important thing was that the darkspawn didn't return. That was a real boon, especially as they reached what appeared to be a small, walled-in homestead just off the road in a large clearing. Asari pounded on the solid iron gates with a ring that hung there and waited patiently. It was an old guard station, she said, a place that all the refugees had been keen to ignore despite its convenience along the road. When asked why it was avoided, she shrugged and replied that she hadn't been in Kont-Aar long enough to find out and no one wanted to tell her.

A minute passed before a shutter opened and the gray face of a kossith peered out at them. He said nothing, but Asari quickly introduced the lot of them as Qunari and Basalit-an sent from Seere to find any more survivors in Kont-Aar. After a minute more, the massive portal opened and let them inside.

The whole space was full of low stone huts and Qunari soldiers. The lot of them paused from where they sat about the communal cook fires and looked up at the travelers stained with road grime and old blood. Asari introduced them all again and explained the situation. One of the soldiers rose and came over.

"I am Sten," he said, dipping his horned head respectfully. "I lead this _karataam_. If there is anything we can do for you, _tamassran_ , please do not hesitate to ask."

Asari smiled at him gratefully. "That is most appreciated, Sten. There were precious few to help us out of the warriors at Seere."

The Qunari warrior was taken aback, his face looking like he had been slapped. "Seere was supplied with a full contingent from Par Vollen! How could they not supply you aid?"

"I can say only that they seemed to be afraid."

Marian stepped forward into the light of the fire, standing up straight at Asari's right hand. She returned Sten's searching look with one of stern impassivity, and he eventually nodded to let her continue.

"I asked them to give us passage on one of their ships to Kont-Aar, that we had business there. They denied me, saying that they would take us only to Par Vollen, but to Kont-Aar, they would not go. They did not explain themselves, but when we learned of the plague, matters became a little clearer."

Sten let loose a slew of curses in Qunari, kicking a nearby soldier's helmet so hard that it became lodged in the broken plaster stucco of a nearby hut. The soldier it belonged to said nothing, merely ducked away silently while his commanding officer fumed and tugged his helmet free. The atmosphere in the entire space became tense, the other soldiers pretending to be much more interested in their gruel than they possibly really could have been.

He breathed deeply as he struggled to calm himself, raking his hands through his tangled, platinum hair. It hung long around his shoulders and nearly covered the fading emblems on his pauldrons. As Marian looked around, she noted that all of their armor was looking a little worse for wear, that their hair and horns were all equally growing wild and disheveled. Darkspawn spears were stabbed into the ground around the perimeter and up upon the high walls. Torches were being lit at intervals, lighting up the rotting heads there and the mounted ogre horns at each corner. These men, she wagered, these soldiers were as close as the Qunari came to Grey Wardens, warriors who dedicated their very lives and honor to ridding the world of the taint.

"I will send soldiers with you in the morning to guide you the rest of the way to Kont-Aar," Sten continued when he was himself again. "I do not envy you the journey or your business there, but our duty is to aid however we can with darkspawn on the road. That was our given assignment after the report of Sten of Ferelden returned from fighting the Blight. We will die for that duty if necessary." He motioned toward the fire. "For now, my friends, you should join us and eat and rest. What you did today is no secret to us. And for that, we owe you all we can offer."

The group tiredly nodded their thanks and sank onto logs vacated for their use. Gruel was served them, and the soldiers were either completely silent or making hesitant attempts at polite conversation. Such a motley crew they had never seen, from the shapely dark woman in tall boots to the short man with the excessively hairy chest. That there were three Qunari amongst them was a comforting thing, and it was to Taarbas that they first began to speak before acknowledging Marian. Asari they gave a wide berth and mostly refused to even meet her eyes. When Marian asked Taarbas about it later, he explained it was because she was Tamassran and of high rank. The soldiers here were mostly the sort that had been stripped of their ranks due to either losing a battle from perceived cowardice or otherwise trying to regain honor with the Arishok for some other reason. To acknowledge Asari as an equal until they had regained status was forbidden.

The physician didn't seem to see it that way. She chatted gaily with anyone that would listen to her or meet her eyes. Sometimes even if they didn't. She was mostly talking excitedly of the darkspawn, trying to learn what these soldiers understood of them to compliment the bits of information she already knew. Only Sten was comfortable replying to her, going on at length of what they had seen during their years of service here at the base that they had come to name _Vashoth Stenok_. Amongst themselves, it was a title they gave each other as well. After hearing a little bit more, Asari's face broke into a large smile yet again, and she spun to regard Marian.

"We've done it!" she exclaimed, everyone about the fire falling silent at the suddenness of her outburst.

Marian struggled to swallow a mouthful of gruel as she felt the weight of the attention thrust upon them. "Done what?"

"You said that the Grey Wardens were the only ones who had a cure for the plague! We've found them!"


	31. Questioning Purpose

It was difficult explaining the real Grey Wardens to Asari. Marian only had what little she knew from Anders to go on, and watching the hope slowly drain from the kossith woman's golden eyes made it harder. Even finding Grey Wardens wasn't an actual solution. It merely prolonged the inevitable. Eventually, the Champion had said enough. Asari's face had fallen into an expression of despair, her long hands gently cradling the tiny, sleeping baby as if unsure she were really there...or merely a dying apparition that would shatter with a breath.

"Then, all I have are my notes," she said quietly, "and the hope that my _inistaam_ did not perish in vain." She looked back to Marian, a surprisingly sharp glint to her steady gaze. "My honor depends on it."

Isabela gave a little sigh. It sounded more tired than dramatic. "Is there anything your honor _doesn't_ depend on when you're Qunari? It all sounds so wearisome."

Taarbas barely had to turn from where he sat near Marian. "My honor doesn't depend at all on you being alive," he said tonelessly. "Shall we continue this guessing game?"

" _Parshaara_ ," Marian interjected testily. "This is no time for anyone to be arguing." She turned to Sten. "How much further before we reach Kont-Aar?"

"A full day. I recommend that we leave at sunrise. Daylight will keep the undesireables at bay once we reach the mountain pass. I do not know what we will find at the colony, now. It has been many days since anyone passed in either direction."

Marian nodded and rose. "Then I suggest we retire. To be attacked where we were, the 'spawn numbers must be increasing. We will need all our strength."

"Agreed," Sten replied with a curt nod. "You and your companions may have the officers' hut, _ben-hassrath_. The fire is all we need." He gestured to the building he had lodged the helmet into, a squat stone structure with a tightly thatched roof and dingy exterior. Marian immediately strode over and peeked inside before entering. It was very sparsely furnished but clean. Low cots lay along all the walls, enough for six, and a lantern hung from the middle of the roof beams should light be needed. There was no heat source, but there were blankets of thick wool.

She turned back to Sten from the doorway, taking in his proud yet bedraggled frame. "Your generosity and sacrifice are appreciated, _stenok_ ," she said, smiling warmly and stealing a glance at Taarbas before she ducked inside.

Varric and Fenris were soon to follow her once they were both done eating and discussing some tactic should they encounter an ogre again. Isabela had made friends with two of the lower-ranking soldiers, kossith two steps from being Tal-Vashoth if they weren't already. They listened to her tales of the high seas with ears too eager and smiles too broad. Taarbas did not begrudge them. The wilds were never kind to any Qunari, especially ones so disgraced and sent on a mission that could only end in an ignoble death. It was not long before even the pirate retired, making a show of stretching languidly and smirking as the eyes of those same two warriors followed her swaying hips into the darkness of the hut. When Taarbas looked over at them, they quickly dropped their stares and pretended to be intensely interested in their food.

No, he could not begrudge them. It wasn't that Isabela was Isabela and there was naught to be done about it. It was...it was...

"Forgive me, _tamassran_ ," he breathed, glancing over to where Asari still sat, beaming with motherly affection at the baby cradled in her arms. "But I must speak with you privately."

The female kossith looked up at him quizzically but scooted herself closer to him across the worn-smooth wood of the log bench. The look in her eyes was missing that childlike demeanor from when they'd first met her in Seere. The light from the fire played along the angles of her face, giving her an even deeper appearance of maturity that left Taarbas wondering exactly how old she really was. Young, yes. But there was a level of experience radiating from her that made him almost think her his senior. Such would be impossible.

"You have a need, Qunari?" she asked lowly, making sure that no others could hear. There was nowhere to go in the cramped encampment for true privacy, for the ideal solitude. The space they had would have to make due.

Taarbas inhaled a deep breath, slowly, almost agonizingly letting it out through his nose. He stared into the flames, the orange glow of the burning embers becoming all that he saw. He tried to make it all he felt, but the more he tried, he failed. There was a tightness in his chest again. A pain, a throbbing. It was like his heart was fighting ravenously to escape its confines. A gentle wind blew, and he shuddered. Like a clap of thunder, his senses came back to him.

"I..." his voice trailed off at first as he tried to collect his thoughts. "I feel myself...straying...from the rightly guided path. I entrusted another with my soul. I did not do it out of necessity."

"I saw that she bears your emblem. And that you bear hers. That is no Qunari shield."

"We are so bound."

"If not out of necessity, why? Qunari, what is this?"

" _Ebasit asala tal_ ," he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut as if in pain. "She is my true soul. For the first time since..." His teeth clenched together and he fell silent. His head dropped forward as his entire body shook with rage, but Asari did not need him to finish what he had to say.

She saw his hand clutch at his ribcage, claw subconsciously at the vicious scar there that was only half as severe as its twin on his back. Its origin was unknown to her, but a Qunari male was only made _taarbas_ if deemed completely useless in battle yet unfit for anything else. Due to that, and the nearly forgotten meaning behind the title, many such Qunari felt they had little to lose. She had seen Taarbas fight, knew that he was still more than capable. To be forced into a lesser rank needlessly, to be kept there, was to be incomplete, was to never have the full glory of honor deserved. It was to be almost without a soul at all.

Taarbas was being punished. And from the looks of things, his conscience was driving him deeper into a personal prison, more than a demotion or even exile ever could.

Asari kept all this in mind but continued on a set line of stoic questioning as she had been trained.

"And does the human understand?"

"She has lost. We both have lost." The other Qunari's voice was barely a whisper as he raked a tense hand gruffly through his hair. "I was her only tie to the Qun. And after a while...she was mine. Even before we left that _bas_ city that is now poison on my lips, I—I kept watch over her. I told myself that she had the Arishok's _asala_ , that I would need to return with it or not at all...that she would have to come to me and not I her."

He lifted his head to once again stare absently into the flames. "She came to me. And she asked to know the Qun. It was not my place to teach her." An ironic half-smile curled his lip. "But I taught her all the same." He braced his forearms on his knees, this fingers lightly woven together. The pouring of his confession seemed to visibly calm him, but Asari doubted it was truly making him feel any better within.

"If it was not your place," she asked gently, "why did you even begin?"

"Why do any of us do things? Duty...necessity...vengeance. When you're surrounded by _bas_ , it eventually becomes all you think you know. Her interest in the Qun strengthened the resolve I'd thought almost gone. By teaching her, I reminded myself of who I was."

"And your soul. You said you did not share it out of necessity."

"I shared it out of my own selfishness." He had snapped at her. He hadn't intended to. His breathing was rushed again, labored, that pounding heart resuming in his chest that suddenly felt much too small. "They are close quarters aboard a ship. I heard the others talking. One of the _bas_ of that...place...has laid claim to her." He snarled and spat into the flames. "I didn't want him to have sway over her. And never without going through me."

"You would rather it be you that held sway?"

"No," Taarbas objected quickly, his hard, violet eyes flashing up to meet hers. The stony glare did not last. Just as quickly as it had formed, it dissolved like ice in warm waters. His gaze dropped to the baby Asari cradled. "...and yes."

Asari merely watched him as he gazed long at the tiny child and then dropped his face into his hands. He was bent over in shame, collapsing almost to the ground, his fingers clawing at first his cheeks and then his hair and horns. The female glanced over to where their fellow kossith had been gathered. If they suspected or heard anything, they were politely ignoring it. In fact, only Sten and one other were still awake, discussing something in low tones and drawing maps in the soil.

She had taken confessions before. It was not uncommon in the colonies, those places remote and removed from the guiding hubs of their civilization. Qunari frequently worried that they were beginning to behave too much like the _basra_ around them, their way of life threatened at every breath, every exchange, every interaction with those not of the Qun. She had learned in the _viddathlok_ what happened to those who truly strayed. Selling one's sword for coin, denying one's purpose, desiring a spouse and children...for whatever reason, she had seen those who debased themselves as _bas_ dragged in by the Ben-Hassrath. She had heard their stories.

And she had felt for every single one of them.

Taarbas had lost everything, and she could sense in him, not that he was trying to fill the void out of selfishness, but that he felt there was little avenue left to him. That he had been pushed aside—abandoned—as these of the _Vashoth Stenok_ , given some impossible task to keep him in exile but in thrall to the Qun rather than a willing follower.

" _Kost, Taarbas_ , _"_ she whispered gently, reaching out a hand and resting it on his shoulder. He froze beneath her touch. " _Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun_. For, does it not say, 'Love the slave as you would his master, for they are brothers'?"

"It does, _tamassran_."

"And does it not also say, 'Do what you must in the face of adversity, for everything in life is precious'?"

"It does, _tamassran_."

"And, lastly, does it not also say, 'Guard ye your women, for they are the heart of all that is'?"

Taarbas swallowed hard, almost like he were fighting back tears. "It does, _tamassran_."

She took her hand away from him and stood, his body remaining prostrate as if in deference. "Then do what you must, Qunari, and guard your woman, for she is the heart of all you have. Love yourself as much as you love her, and your path will remain rightly guided." A little deterred at his continued posture, she knelt and urged him to his feet. He continued to avoid her eyes.

"Look at me, Qunari," she urged, her voice softer, less authoritative...more Asari and less Tamassran.

After faltering for but a moment, Taarbas managed to obey her command. She stared at him, hard and searching as he had done to Marian countless times. He was exposed under those golden eyes but not in a way that made him feel vulnerable. She was seeking to understand him, not judge him.

"Remember who you are, Qunari," she said, breaking the silence. "You are more than this." She brought two of her fingers to rest on his scar, looking from it and back to his eyes before she smiled, soft and bright. Before Taarbas could properly react, Asari walked slowly off in the direction of the hut, humming a soft lullaby to the child in her arms.


	32. War Party

Marian awoke the next morning to a deep chorus of chanting. Now and again there was the clatter of armor and the stomping of feet. Startled, she leaped from her bed and reached for her sword.

"Easy, Hawke."

It was Fenris. He, Varric, and Isabela stood at the doorway to the hut looking out, the latter two absolutely fascinated by what was going on outside.

"It is only Sten's warriors. They are performing the _hoquun_ , preparing for battle against deadly foes. The chant invigorates their spirits and is meant to intimidate the souls of their enemy, even if they are not around to see it. Although, given how loud they are, I'm certain the darkspawn can hear them."

Calming, Marian released her grip on the Bassrath-Kata and stepped over to where the others were. She watched from her position near Isabela, the two women easily enthralled by what they saw before them. The Qunari stood four rows deep in wide stances apparently aimed at making them appear larger to any observer. They were fully armored in helmets and pauldrons and leather strapping all stained black with tainted blood and ash from many fires. They did not wear the classic red warpaint Marian had grown so accustomed to seeing on Qunari, either. Instead, it was black as pitch, made from a paste of ash and...

"Is that blood he's mixing into that?" Marian whispered to her pirate friend, pointing over to where an unhelmeted Sten was mixing more paint to finish the design on Taarbas' chest.

"Well, it certainly isn't water. And it's not wine. Trust me...I looked."

"But _what_ blood? Or rather, whose?"

Isabela made a show of looking up at the encampment's thick walls. In the daylight, it was much easier to see the darkspawn heads rotting on their own pikes. Then, she lightly clicked her tongue and returned her focus to the Qunari soldiers in the yard. "I decided that I didn't really want to find out."

Marian watched with slowly growing horror as Sten traced line after line on Taarbas' silver skin, the emblem of the House of Tides suddenly looking uglier than any wound with the realization that these warriors coated themselves willingly in the tainted blood of their most dire enemy, risking with every breath, every cut, every bruise falling prey to the Blight disease. Forgetting herself, the woman made to shove her way past her companions to get Sten to stop. She could not risk losing-

A light but firm hand clamped down on her shoulder. Spinning about, Marian locked eyes with Asari.

"Qunari warriors always paint themselves with the blood of their enemy," the kossith female explained, releasing Marian as soon as she had her attention. "It gives them strength."

"So...all that red warpaint we saw at Kirkwall...that was..."

Asari shrugged casually. "Probably whatever _bas_ were foolish enough to get in the way of the Arishok's duty."

"Creepy," Varric muttered from his place in the doorway, peering out at the warriors with a new level of understanding, "but oddly impressive."

Marian turned back around to take in the goings on out in the yard. The warrriors had finished the _hoquun_ and were now scattering to gather up their weapons and supplies. Taarbas came over to the hut, his bladed staff on his back and his arms bound in borrowed black leather bracers. He said to them only that it was time to go as he helped Asari gather up the baby and bind her in the blanket again. Not once did he look at Marian or even acknowledge her presence.

Once the child was secure, he quickly left. Asari was close on his heels, and Varric dashed along to keep up with her, already beginning to ask her a chain of questions about the Qunari military and cultural aspects related thereto. The title was already coming to him: _Hard and Horned_. It could only end in tears—for the 'other guy'.

Fenris and Isabela waited for Marian to gather her things. She shoved both Sataareth and the Bassrath-Kata into their respective sheaths on her back and found the small satchel of supplies that was hers to carry. Without any ceremony, the three of them marched from the hut to join the others, everyone amassing at the large iron doors that were still firmly locked. When everyone was together, Sten raised both his arms into the air from where he stood at the front of it all.

"Brothers!" he called out, his deep voice booming over the rumbling din. The group gradually fell silent. " _Kadan-fe_ , your willingness to volunteer does you great honor. Today, we lend aid to those _banisera—_ Qunari and _basalit-an_ alike—who risk everything for Kont-Aar: our colony, our brothers!" A cheer rose up from the crowd, warriors pumping fists into the air or clashing their swords against shields. Sten raised his hands again to ease them. "This will not be easy. Kont-Aar has fallen silent. No war cries echo from the mountains. No songs ring from the valley. _Vashun_ vermin plague our lands in greater numbers and this—this day—is when we shall prove to Par Vollen what it means to be _Vashoth Stenok_! _Ataash varin kata_! _Anaan esaam Qun_!"

The roar that followed was deafening. The ground trembled beneath the stomping feet, and the air was alive with the vibrations of a full score of kossith Qunari warriors. Over that, Marian was still able to make out the chilling howls of Swoop. She spotted him braced at Taarbas' side, his square head angled skyward as he joined in the battle cries. Even the mabari was ready for war.

They charged out of the camp when the great doors were opened, a skeleton guard remaining behind to keep the location secure. Sten had only asked a small handful to accompany the Champion and her companions, but there are no secrets in such close quarters. The entire battalion insisted on taking on the task. They all had their reasons. Some were seeking atonement for crimes or cowardice. Others to prove they were worth more than the lesser ranks assigned them. Most simply felt it was their duty. And it was a duty they would die for.

The pace was a grueling one. Sten allowed no breaks as they plowed along the jungle road, even for one with legs so short as Varric. Fenris frequently ended up carrying his small friend on his back to give the dwarf a breather now and again. Marian worried for Asari, but every time she glanced over at the kossith woman, all she saw was a face plastered with grim determination. She had hitched her robes up and tucked them into her thick belt, allowing her feet to move as freely as necessary. One arm stayed wrapped about the baby while the other kept her satchel of _gaatlok_ grenades from jostling about too much. For a physician, her stamina was amazing. Marian kept thinking to herself after the first few hours sped past them that Merrill would have collapsed for want of breath on more than one occasion.

The jungle eventually thinned and the ground the road followed sloped upward. The grade became steeper as they went along, and Marian realized—especially once they crested the canopy—that they were climbing a mountain that had a breathtaking view of the ocean. There was no time to enjoy it or even think more beyond, _Par Vollen lies out there...not far beyond the horizon_. They had to keep moving.

The forward scouts had reported a couple genlock sightings in the pass ahead, but there was no way to know if they were merely scouts themselves or signs of an ambush.

Sten brought up his hand to draw the clanking company to a halt.

"Thank the Maker," Varric breathed, plopping himself down right where he was on the road. Swoop likewise sat down beside him, tongue lolling as he panted to cool off. The dwarf took a long draught of water from his canteen before he poured some out in a small wooden bowl for the dog. He'd pinched it from Adda. He didn't think she'd mind.

Asari looked down sharply as the baby began to squirm about in her pouch. She made tiny, strangled whining noises before she let out a full-fledged cry. Nothing the Qunari could do would calm her. She didn't want water or food, and the warriors quickly began threatening to toss her off the mountain if she couldn't be quieted.

"What is it?" Marian whispered, her head leaned toward Asari but her eyes on Sten as he issued orders lowly to different units.

"She's reacting like she's in pain. I think...I think it's related to the plague. Asari told me that she always heard voices, and they were louder and more horrible when-" She broke off and looked around quickly, her face ashen and frightened. "When there are _vashun_ nearby."

"Darkspawn," Fenris growled from the physician's other side. He quickly drew the Sword of Mercy and scanned the mountainside above them and the treeline below. "That Grey Warden we helped—Nathaniel. He said he could sense them through the taint."

"That he did," Marian replied lowly, drawing her own weapons while she, too, scanned their surroundings. By that time, Sten had reached them.

"Ben-Hassrath, I will take some of my men into the pass ahead. Some of the _vashedan_ creatures were spotted around where the road narrows and the mountain closes in. The others will stay back here with you." He turned as if to go before shooting a glance at Asari. "And keep the _imekari_ quiet. Close her eyes. She is too young for the sight of blood."

He strode away then. Nearly half the soldiers followed him along the road of stone that curved around the face of the mountain and angled ever upward. The pass he had spoken of was partially visible from where they stood, a rock formation that looked as if part of the mountain had tried to split away from the main body, leaning out over the green blanket of forest like a tired monolith. It was wide, however, and the road had been paved through the vacated space. Dozens of large boulders and nearly as many dark holes marred the landscape. It was terrain prime for landslides or worse if the weather ever went bad.

Marian was suddenly very glad it was a sunny, cloudless day.

The remaining soldiers crowded around them, forming a defensive wall between any enemy and the Tamassran. Taarbas was among them. Marian got a better look at his face this time. He looked drawn, tired, his eyes shadowed like he hadn't gotten the slightest amount of rest. But his shoulders were still square, his stance still solid. He had his duty, and he would carry it out regardless of how he felt. His staff was braced in his hands, ready. The crest of the Amells shone from the shield on his back. Her shield. Reflexively, she touched the sash bound about her waist, her fingers tracing over the embroidery of Taarbas' emblem of rank. She wouldn't lose him to darkspawn. She was determined.

She wouldn't lose anyone.

Not ever again.


	33. Kont-Aar

The baby was wailing within the soft fabric of her blanket pouch, thrashing and squirming about as if trying to get free. A tiny hand eventually broke from its confines, reaching for Asari's face, and her eyes streaming tears down her bright red face. There were harsher grunts from the soldiers but none dared to actually follow through with their threats. Asari did all she could, but there was absolutely no placating the human infant anymore.

"It's like a canary in a mine," Varric muttered, priming Bianca and making ready. "But also a really fantastic way to attract all the wrong attention."

Two Qunari suddenly stumbled backward into the center of the protective circle. One was doubled over with an arrow in his chest. The other growled menacingly, teeth bared in anger more than pain as he snapped the shaft that had lodged in the meat of his shoulder. He did the same for his comrade and shoved him back into place. A wound that wasn't fatal was worth fighting through, and the archers that shot those arrows were about to have a very bad day.

Varric couldn't wait to spook the rabbits from their hole. He loaded a few more bolts and took aim up the mountain slope. Once he was satisfied with the angle, he let loose a rain of missiles that burst as soon as they made contact with something solid. There were a few inhuman grunts and one strangled cry of pain. Genlock heads popped up from behind several large boulders as they scrambled to get away from the sudden small fires.

" _Ataash Qunari_!" a _karasten_ shouted, raising his sword and motioning for the others to charge up the hillside. A chorus of roaring was the reply as a good number of the warriors followed suit, cutting down the darkspawn archers that futilely attempted to flee. A small number, including Taarbas, stayed near Asari, eying both the upward slope and the ravine on the other side of the road that fell back into the forest.

Sounds of battle echoed back to them from up ahead. Sten's party had encountered their own set of ambushers, and Marian could only hope that they were having the same good fortune. She looked down at Varric, her dwarven friend grinning as he took down a hurlock through the eye.

"Are we seriously ambushing the ambushers?" she asked, her tone just this side of wry.

"Sure looks that way," he replied as he reloaded and turned toward the ravine. He loosed an entire hail of arrows onto the lower ground just to make sure nothing was there. His brow furrowed when no flailing darkspawn appeared. "And it also looks like they only favor the higher ground."

Marian spun to take in the soldiers fighting on the mountainside. More darkspawn had charged down from hiding places higher up, but it was no match for the kossith. Even the two that had been wounded at the outset were fighting tirelessly and cleaving foes aside in droves. After a moment, the woman's face darkened and she turned her head further along the road where Sten had gone.

"It makes no sense," she said, Fenris and Isabela moving in to hear her better while still keeping an eye on things. "Just yesterday, we were completely taken by storm in the heart of the jungle. There were _hundreds_ of darkspawn coming at us. This?" She nodded as the _karasten_ came back down to them, their bodies glistening in fresh blood and their eyes wild from the fighting. "This isn't even really enough to be a thorn in our side."

When the other Qunari joined them, they all listened carefully to what was going on further along the mountain road. The air was falling silent that way, as well, and once the clashing of weapons vanished entirely, a loud Qunari chant rose up. A few minutes later, Sten returned with his complete entourage, all the warriors grinning with the glory of their success.

"No more than a scouting party," the senior warrior reported to Marian and the others once they'd reformed ranks. He nodded at the sprawled forms of dead hurlocks and genlocks on the upper slope. "And I see you dealt with one of your own."

"It worries me that there were so few," Marian admitted.

Sten shrugged and directed his men forward, but he marched at the Champion's side as they continued to converse. "We learned some time ago that the creatures cannot abide the feeling of sunlight. They will deal with it if they must, but they prefer the darker places. The jungle can be as dark as any cave. Here," he gestured around them, "they are far too exposed. We still must be careful as we go forward, but I feel we will have little to fear."

Soft hiccups came from the child in Asari's arms. "She's calming," the kossith woman said, smiling even as she turned her eyes to Sten. "Perhaps she is not too young for the sight of blood. If I can get my notes, perhaps she is even destined for great things. Aren't you, little one? Yes, you are..." and her speech subsequently devolved into unintelligible cooing that brought raised eyebrows from just about anyone that could hear her.

The remainder of the journey through the mountain pass was significantly less threatening. If there were darkspawn in the crevices and hiding places, they were far enough away that the child remained unaffected and the battalion unaccosted. Sten had slowed the pace somewhat, but only until the road sloped downward again. As they curved around the other face of the mountain, Marian and the others from Kirkwall paused and gaped. Even Fenris had never seen such a place as what lay in the valley below.

A walled city sprawled before them, contained on three sides and open to the sea. In the center, a tiered structure rose up as if emulating the mountain itself, a pyramid of gray stone adorned by pillars painted a bold crimson. Paved streets spread out from it in perfectly straight lines, creating as many blocks of buildings as they did greenery. From this height, this distance, it looked like a paradise. There was no sign of ruin or violence or plague. It looked untouched. Resilient.

Empty.

As the road brought them closer, they saw how the trees and shrubs of the jungle approaching the city had been cut back, allowing the paved expanse to become a proper highway suitable for heavy amounts of traffic. Homesteads began to speckle the landscape, resting at the ends of gently curving lanes. It was here that the destruction became evident. Entire buildings were burned to the ground, walls and fences broken and collapsing, old blood spattered on various surfaces and staining the ground. Patches of dead grass were everywhere. Any place a body had fallen—Qunari or darkspawn—the very earth seemed to falter and die.

What was worse was the silence. Their footfalls and Swoop's panting were all Marian could hear as they drew nearer and nearer to the massive carved stone edifice that housed Kont-Aar's main gate. Geometric renditions of beasts she couldn't hope to name screamed at her from either side of the layered iron grating. Their stone eyes bulged, tongues lolling from amidst jaws of jagged teeth, and she suddenly found herself thinking that the Twins were uninspired in comparison.

The gate had been broken through at some point, the smaller doorways set within the crossbars of black metal were bent and hanging askew. Sten raised an arm and drew the company to a halt not twenty yards from the entrance.

"The sun begins to sink," he said plainly, turning to face Asari. "I will not go forward blindly, and I would never force my _karataam_ into such uncertainty. We are here for your work, _asari_ , and we will need to know where you left it. _Exactly_ where you left it." He looked with narrowed gray eyes at the pyramid looming in the distance. "I shouldn't need to remind you what happens here when darkness falls."

Asari took a few hesitating steps toward the gate, moving away from the battalion in order to get a better look inside. Her face was creased with worry and sadness, her teeth gnawing her lip and her eyes moist. She gazed at the city that suddenly looked so much like a prisoner unto itself, its broad avenues deceptively clean. Her stomach turned over itself with the memories of what they'd had to do to survive, to get away. The emblems had been collected, the bodies burnt. The sick had to be locked away in the bowels of the pyramid until a cure could be found or they turned and were killed or worsened and died. A few ships had been sent to Par Vollen. None had returned. No aid had come. It wasn't until the first refugees reached Seere that they realized any others knew of their plight...and none had the honor to fight.

After minutes that felt interminable, the physician raised a hand to point. "The west entrance of the _viddathlok_. Turn left. Third corridor, turn right. Through the library and up the far stairs. Mine was the third study room on the right. It was...a bit of a mess when I left it last."

Sten motioned, and the _karataam_ moved forward, moving with silent discipline through the broken gate and into the abandoned colony. Marian rested a hand on Asari's arm when she reached the female kossith, the golden face turned toward the ground and eyes closed. Tears gleamed like honey as they streamed down her cheeks.

"We'll get your notes, Asari," the Champion reassured her gently. "In and out, that's all we need to do. Then, you can work on your cure."

Varric made a show of cocking Bianca. "Oh, absolutely. With instructions like those, there's no chance we'll get lost."

Asari shook her head. "In, yes. Lost, there's no way. I can do it blindfolded. But out?" She finally opened her eyes and gauged the position of the sun in the sky. "The best we can hope for is that the _vashun_ lost interest when there was no one left to kill."


	34. Shadow of the Viddathlok

They moved with solemn apprehension through the abandoned city. Swoop stayed close to Marian, his nose to the ground, as they walked across the smooth stone of paved streets oddly devoid of blood or debris. There was no sign of massacre here, of violence and death. Everything was in order, very unlike the farm-like homesteads they had passed on the way here at the base of the mountain. It was more than a little unnerving, and soft whimpers from Swoop proved that he was put off by it all, too.

The pyramid loomed in front of them, dark and dead in the flames of the setting sun. Asari had visibly paled. Her hands clutched at the baby tied to her, the tiny form squirming against her but thankfully making no sound. If the mountain pass hadn't made it clear enough, that child making the slightest cry was the worst of all possible signs.

"Okay, Goldie, spill it," Varric whispered to her as he aimed Bianca at every window and doorway. "We survived a Qunari raid back in Kirkwall, and they never left the place cleaner than they'd found it. Well...it had fewer _people_ cluttering up the place, but they didn't clean up the blood or fix every barrel." He paused to wipe at the sweat coating his brow with a glittering sheen. "And darkspawn leave even bigger messes behind. Are you _sure_ that's what's been antagonizing you?"

The kossith woman nodded sagely, her eyes unwavering from their intended goal. "Our _karasten_ were the first to fall. The rest of us had no choice but to go on living as our purposes dictated. The blood of the _vashun_ carried the disease, and so we would rid ourselves of it quickly. Refugees were guided by day to Seere. The Ben-Hassrath guarded them." She pointed to a low stone structure as they passed it without even turning her head. When Varric and the others looked, they could see flame-scorched gray stone that was the entrance to a subterranean chamber or complex. An odd smell came from below. "What mess you do not see on the streets you will find in there. Our dead, our lost. Their dead, their lost. All are ashes."

"So...you sat around waiting for death or rescue...and just kept house?"

Asari blinked. With a furrowed brow, she finally turned her attention down to the dwarf at her side. "Kept house?"

"Never mind. Just know that you scare me a smidge."

Isabela peered around them, her expression more scrutinizing than disturbed. "They told us at Seere that the darkspawn were capable of speech. The only darkspawn I know are restricted to a vocabulary of, 'Grr...argh...' and maybe a raspy, hissing sort of thing. If these ones spoke...what exactly did they have to say?"

"Very little," Asari replied. "For such things as looked long dead, it was frightful enough. There would be some that would demand women either in your tongue or that of the _vashedan_ of Tevinter. Our warriors are trained to prefer death over allowing themselves to be captured. Our women..." Her voice trailed off, lowering her forehead to rest it on that of the baby in her arms, her large, graceful hands cradling the tiny form. "Our women have...complicated...duties to the Qun."

"So you just _let_ them be taken?" Isabela's tone was incredulous. Taarbas shot her a dark look but maintained his silence.

"No," Asari snapped back. "A male would risk capture before he allowed the same to happen to a female, and with what I've already said..." she sighed in exasperation. "We don't have the time for this." And she clamped her mouth shut, her lips a firm line of frustration as they stepped into the long shadow cast by the pyramid.

The _viddathlok_ , the largest and most important building in any Qunari colony, was a massive structure of tightly joined granite blocks and smooth carvings of a style Marian had never seen before in her life. They was similar to the monstrosities at the main gate, but there was the definite impression that a story was being told. Warriors were depicted with swords and spears. Enemies of both human form and beast were shown lying wounded or dead, the Qunari victorious over them. There was a strange series of hash marks that could have been writing, but the Champion was not about to hazard a guess. She hadn't had the opportunity to peer inside the Tome of Koslun out of curiosity or otherwise.

Marian wasn't sure what she had expected, really. Part of her had thought the pyramid was the home of whichever Qunari were in charge of the colony. To a Fereldan in a strange land, that translated to "king" or "teyrn" or "bann". She had totally forgotten that, outside of the Triumvirate, the Tamassrans had governance over everything. Even the military answered to them if there was no Arishok or _kithshok_ present. And when she saw how secure the gargantuan building was—two entrances halfway up the steeply sloping sides on the east and west faces—she wondered if it also doubled as a fortress. She asked Asari as much. All the kossith woman did was nod in reply.

As the sun began to dip into the sea to the west, Sten led them into the pyramid. They had to move in pairs, the corridor narrow and close. The internal hallways were lined with a trough full of some unknown substance. Asari struck a flint and tinder, and the oily liquid ignited with a magnesium brilliance. Blue-white flame raced along the length of the trough wherever it traversed throughout the structure. The smell reminded Marian of _gaatlok_ residue mingled with...fried cabbage? No, she didn't really want to think about it.

There was another odor permeating everything. It was soaked into the stone, the floor, the very air was filled with it. It smelled of death and the Deep Roads.

"They've been here," Varric breathed, cocking Bianca and having her at the ready. Runes gleamed along the golden mahogany of her length. He glanced at the baby Asari carried. The child slept as peacefully as one bearing the taint every could. "But it doesn't look like they're here, now."

They followed Asari's instructions to the letter, weaving through the tight spaces and into the more expansive library. Scrolls filled square niches in the walls, up and up and up to where Marian could only see a small point of light in the distance. Dimming golden light. The waning sunlight barely reached them there on the tiled floor, but the troughs of ignited oil wound the entire way up the shaft. They were in the very center of the pyramid. That realization drew the Champion to a stunned halt, her wide green eyes staring about her at the staggering volume of knowledge archived about them.

"What is all this?" she gasped more than asked.

Asari turned to her, a small smile finally breaking through the irritation and distress.

"Copies of the collected knowledge of _ashkaari_ , interpretations of the Qun, histories, studies into _bas_ cultures...now and then the occasional lullaby or children's story. The fifth level even has a collection of traditional choreographies for dances performed at the Festival of Tides. Had we more time, I would love to show them to you. They are...inspiring." Marian couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw Asari's eyes dart over to Taarbas before she—she winked.

The Champion felt a fiery burn rise to her cheeks and immediately turned her attention to other things. Like the stairs at the far side of the room that they still had to climb. The architecture truly was fascinating, square and severe, strong and timeless, purposeful and commanding. Everything a good Qunari was.

It was a climb to the next level where the study rooms were located, easily a fifty-foot drop to the floor below, and the Qunari apparently didn't believe in railings. Varric might not have been afraid of the vast open sky like his brethren, but his constant gulping and pallid, tight expression proved to Marian that he had a distinct fear of heights. She rested a hand on his shoulder to calm him. It might have only marginally worked, but he still grinned up at her with an embarrassed sort of thanks.

When they reached Asari's destination, Sten ordered the forward ranks to keep moving along the corridor and the others to hold back. The sunlight had completely vanished from the opening far above, and he was not about to have his men surprised when they had such a precious charge in the form of a Tamassran. They switched out swords and staves for javelins bound in red cording. Marian was the only one Asari would allow to follow her inside. She didn't bother to explain herself, but the Champion had enough sense to guess why. She was the only other female Qunari there. Beyond that...who knows what sort of tradition was dictating. Or it might not even have extended beyond personal preference.

Once inside the room, however, things became a lot clearer. There was simply not enough _space_ to fit more than one other person, save maybe Varric. The room was the size of a prison cell, lined with more compartments for scrolls and other tools, and dominated by a table in the middle. Papers were absolutely everywhere, even clipped to thin ropes draped from shelving and slung across the room. Marian tripped over more than a couple of books, bound in leather and stamped with script from the Tevinter Imperium. Curious, she stooped to pick up a volume.

"What is this?" she asked, her brow furrowed as she struggled to make sense of the severe yet sweeping script.

"Hmm? Oh! That's a treatise on the power of _saarebas_ blood. It's, um, forbidden...even for us to read, really...but desperate times call for desperate measures. At least that's what I keep telling myself." She began to rummage through a particular haphazard pile in the far corner, unearthing more papers and scrolls and even the occasional vial of red liquid. Blood. These, she put into a boxy leather case on the table where they joined dozens of their fellows. Each vial was corked, and each cork was etched with its own symbol.

"And those?"

"Blood of my people," she said softly, pointing to one side. "Blood of the _vashun_ ," she said a bit more strongly, pointing to the other.

"They're all infected?"

Asari nodded before she briskly spun and began to sift through papers again. Her actions were fast, feverish. She knew what she was looking for and she was determined to find it before much more time passed. The child bound to her remained blissfully asleep despite the racket and disturbed dust. Suddenly, she let out a shriek of delight.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, holding up a small field journal like it was the Maker's gift to all mankind, "aha-aha, Asari- _kadan_ , your death shall be one of honor, yet!" She began to riff through the pages at once, searching quickly for whatever answers she might have jotted down.

Marian peered inquisitively over the kossith's shoulder, looking down to see notes jotted in that same script of hash marks she'd seen outside mingled with drawing after drawing over entire pages or just in the margins. The book was apparently full of studies on the darkspawn, but the images were not always accurate portrayals. Most were merely individual body parts with no proper body to go with them.

Once she had reached the end, Asari nodded to herself with a sort of secretive purpose and turned again to the pile on the floor. She still needed something. It had to be there.

Papers shuffled.

Marian waited.

And then the baby cried.


	35. A Good Run of Bad Luck

Taarbas positioned himself next to Sten as the two women ducked into the study room. He hoped that Asari could find what she needed quickly so that they could be gone. It was unsettling to be in that library, in that _city_ , with no other sign of the life that once was. He had seen the refugees in Seere, interacted with a few of them, but there were much too few for a population that had been so great. Kont-Aar was the only Qunari colony on the mainland. It had been predominantly military, ten warriors to every civilian. For those creatures they'd encountered in the jungle to have killed so many was horrendously unbelievable. And to have captured the women, if what Asari said was true, was far worse.

He had quietly asked Sten what it meant when the _vashun_ captured someone—anyone-regardless of sex or origin. The answer was a fate worse than death. Males became their soldiers. Women became things far more ghastly. The _Vashoth Stenok_ had found one such unfortunate while chasing a small band of the creatures back into their underground lair. She had been kossith once, and she sang a rhyme that was almost unintelligible save that the melody was still familiar. It was a skipping rhyme young Qunari girls learn in the _viddathlok_ when first introduced to letters and numbers. The _vashuneera_ , as Sten referred to her, was chanting that same rhyme as she birthed ogre after ogre, the young squirming pustules of filth that the Qunari band quickly slaughtered like so many diseased _dathrasi_. Then, they killed the _vashuneera_. He said that, as she died, she seemed to recognize them. And that look, one of horrified gratefulness, is what drove him on with the determination to cleanse what had been tainted, to take back what had been lost.

"I have utmost faith in Asari," he finished, jerking his head in the direction of the open doorway. "I wish we had known of her before all this happened...but the colony had long before determined us unclean." His gaze took in Taarbas, then, eying him from his booted feet to the crowning curves of his horns. When his eyes dropped again, they settled on the scarred flesh prominently visible upon his ribcage despite the black warpaint. "I am jealous of you, my brother. You have lost your rank but kept your honor. We have lost both and yet still aspire to a _sura-kata_ , that most beautiful death. If only we would be so fortunate."

"I have neither rank nor honor," Taarbas replied tritely, his teeth grinding just a little. "They were taken from me as they were from you." His words caught in his throat for just a moment. "Ben-Hassrath protects what little I have left."

Sten nodded slowly in understanding. He then subtly pointed down the line to his left. "Karashok joined us for similar reasons." Taarbas leaned forward just a little to see the figure in question. It was an older kossith, still strong and broad but sporting the long and gnarled horns of advancing age, his face craggier, his scars more pronounced. "He lived furthest from Kont-Aar when we first felt the sting of the _vashun_. His soul belonged to the Tamassran assigned to his homestead. She and their children were among the first to die of the plague. He found us and will fight the vermin until the _sura-kata_ at last takes him." He looked back to Taarbas, the softness of sympathy in his eyes. "May you never share the same fate, my brother."

"And may all the honors of this world be his," came the reply, the other kossith unable to tear his gaze from the venerable footsoldier poised with his javelin at the ready, his face grim, his amber eyes hard. Here was one who truly had nothing else to live for. Nothing, that is, save only the most glorious of deaths, one worthy of avenging the family he dared to have and suffered to lose.

A small cry startled them both, and they spun to look in the direction of the doorway. It was a soft mewling at first, muffled as if by layers of fabric, but it quickly grew in intensity. Soon, it was an outright wail, and there was the distinct response of shushing and cursing in Asari's voice. A moment later, Marian stood in the doorway right in front of Taarbas, attaching a strange leather box to a strap that she subsequently slung over her shoulder. The baby was still crying.

"Where are they?" Her voice was hushed but clipped and stern. Her eyes darted about as her head slowly turned to pan the area.

All the Qunari along the balcony crouched and raised their weapons higher in readiness. Varric peered along Bianca's scope, looking around above them more than below. Isabela and Fenris both had their hands on their weapons instinctively but did not draw them. The elf's expression was unreadable, but the pirate mashed her lips together nervously. As if being in such an enclosed space wasn't bad enough for her, there was now a much more real threat that they would be further penned in by darkspawn.

"I hated the Deep Roads when you dragged me there, Hawke," she muttered as the other woman came to stand next to her. "Let's not make this a repeat, alright?"

Marian had no intention of doing that. Bethany had been infected with the darkspawn taint in the Deep Roads, and the Champion had had no choice but to kill her own sister to prevent her from completely succumbing. If she ever had to do that again, for her companions had become her family, it would totally destroy her.

They waited and watched in silence. The baby continued to make noise, louder and more insistent with every passing moment, and Asari's shushing was the only other audible thing. Eventually, there was a surprisingly loud cry of disgust. Marian and Taarbas both spun from their positions on either side of the door. Looking inside, they saw Asari bent over the table, her hands gingerly pulling a soiled cloth from around the baby's bottom while the kossith's face was twisted to the side in a grimace.

"False alarm," she muttered sheepishly. "She was merely passing— _shaltam, imekari_! What _is_ that?"

She held the soiled cloth close enough to her face so that she could see but far enough away to avoid as much of the pungent odor as possible. She pointed stiffly at the brown-green mass when Marian approached.

"When did she eat a rock?"

"I...don't think it's a rock."

Marian took the cloth from the kossith's hands so that the other woman could clean the now cooing infant and wrap her in fresh swaddling. The Champion took a stylus from the desk and poked around at the mass in her hand, attempting to separate the oddly shaped lump from the actual waste. Once she was successful, she cleaned it off with a little bit of the water from her canteen and held it up to the light pouring in from the doorway. It was a ball-shaped mass no bigger than a kidney bean, but its glitter was unmistakeable.

"Someone gave this baby solid lyrium recently." She turned back to Asari, the kossith woman tucking the child carefully back into the makeshift pouch. "Why?"

Asari shrugged. "We don't know where your hound found her, _banisera_. I can't answer that. However..." She moved to one of the shelves and ran her fingers quickly over scroll tags and book spines, searching for something in particular. When she found it, she plucked the tome from where it sat and handed it to Marian. "I haven't been able to read it in full. Actually, I haven't been able to read it at all. I don't understand the language. The pictures are helpful, though, but only to a point."

Marian noted the title and flipped through the book quickly. It was one she had seen before. Her father had a copy, which he then had passed on to Bethany. It was an introductory guide to the various properties and uses of lyrium along with all the standard cautionary warnings. Every Circle had at least a dozen copies, often more, and hundreds floated around the countryside. Even apostate mages knew the benefits of such a basic tome.

"It's in Orlesian," she said at last.

"You can read Orlesian?"

Marian nodded, "In my sleep. My father was...an avid reader. He made sure we knew." She snapped the book shut and tucked it in her satchel. She motioned to Asari to finish whatever she was about. "We need to move. I don't want to be trapped in here should darkspawn actually decide to show up."

They were out of the study room only a few minutes later, the _karataam_ moving back along the balcony and down the stairs. Despite their numbers and equipment, they moved smoothly and silently across the vast space and back into the corridor they'd originally followed. They moved faster, more urgently, hoping to avoid the foe they had so anticipated. But even the seasoned _Vashoth Stenok_ that had gone deep into the lairs of brood mothers had no urge to face the swarm that had so silenced Kont-Aar.

Sten brought them to a halt just shy of the entrance, he and one other creeping to the top of the stairs to peer out and make sure the square below was clear. Seeing nothing and the baby not making a sound, they continued forward, the entourage descending the steep, stone steps.

They had just reached the bottom when the horn sounded. There was a strange quality to it, a strangled noise that still somehow managed to resound throughout the city, echoing from every building and sounding from every door. Everyone looked around for the source. High and low, from the walls to the harbor, their eyes darted about in the darkness desperately trying to find definition in all the alien, hazy shapes about them.

It was not much longer before they heard the movement. There was a thunderous clomping like that of cloven feet. Nothing quite like a herd of cattle. Bigger. Bipedal. What happened next was not something anyone had really anticipated.

Out of the gloom, Marian and the others were able to make out the shapes of no fewer than five massive ogres. The horns still pealed through the early night, and the rumble from up the mountain was significantly less than promising. As if the ogres weren't enough of a bad sign. With all the noise, Marian had hardly noticed that the baby had started crying.

"Oh, bugger," Isabela sighed, a hint of resignation in her voice. She drew Vice and Villainy with every intention of using them on at least one of the ogres that blocked the road between them and the main gate. "I suddenly would much rather be inside. I don't think even one of those things could fit through the door."

As if in reply, the ogre at the head of the group lunged forward and roared at them, the sound loud enough that Marian felt the vibrations in her chest. She drew her swords and bared her teeth. She knew what came next: a head-ramming charge. And there were five of them. With all the Qunari clustered together at the base of the pyramid's stairs, it was like a bad game of skittles waiting to happen.

Sten turned to look at her over his shoulder.

"Run."

She glared up at him. "Never."

"Ben-Hassrath, your purpose is elsewhere. Ours is here. Take the Tamassran...and run."

The leading ogre tucked its head in and charged, the others quickly following suit. Asari grabbed Marian's arm and began to drag her in the opposite direction. The Champion tried to shake her off.

"This is not the time to be foolish," Sten spat. "Go! Now!"

Marian still had to be carried away. This time, Taarbas grabbed her by one arm and Fenris the other. Varric had Asari by the hand, and Swoop stayed with them as they dashed off toward the black expanse of the coast. Isabela took up the rear, keeping an eye on the situation behind them to ensure the cleanest escape possible. She saw a good number of things she didn't like and nearly choked when she realized that Marian would like them even less, but there was no time to dwell on it. The _Vashoth Stenok_ knew what they were about no matter what it meant for them.

They ran away from the sound of battle. Tears streamed from Marian's face as she grudgingly moved forward. She had promised herself—promised—that she would lose no more to the darkspawn. Taarbas was reciting from the Qun on a loop, as if he were saying the same prayer over and over and over. Now and then, she caught Asari doing the same thing as the golden-skinned kossith would swing her head around to look behind.

Isabela barked an order to head toward a particular vessel as they neared the docks, directing them to a smaller, single-masted affair that looked better suited for short distances. No one questioned. They just didn't have the hands for anything else. Taarbas and Fenris shoved Marian onto the deck before they set to casting off the thick ropes holding the boat to the pier. Isabela helped Varric get Asari and the wailing baby aboard before they leapt down onto the darkly stained wood themselves. Taarbas was the last one on, giving the pier a good, strong shove to get them going in the right direction before he picked up oars with Fenris.

They rowed like all the demons of the Fade were after them, and the painful part was that they could see absolutely everything happening on the shore. A huge mass of darkspawn had converged beneath the _viddathlok_ , implying that there were still _Vashoth Stenok_ standing to fend them off. Some had noticed Marian and her companions and had come chasing after them, but they had to stop at the pier, firing off their crude arrows as a last ditch effort to stop them. They couldn't sail, couldn't swim. Once the boat was out of bowshot, Isabela and the others breathed just a little easier.

The same could not be said for Marian. She stood at the stern, her hands grasping at the low railing as her eyes stared, unblinking, at the gut-twisting sight in the main square of Kont-Aar. The light that poured from the pyramid's doorway gleamed off the horns of a dozen ogres and the vile armor of scores of hurlocks and genlocks. It was not long before they thrust their weapons into the air...and dispersed. The tears came anew, burning her eyes and her cheeks like acid as her throat tightened around the hard lump forming there.

She threw her head back and screamed. Screamed like she never had, not even when her mother died. The inhuman shrieks carried over the water and silenced even the rejoicing, bloodthirsty darkspawn. The scream devolved into heaving sobs as her body collapsed to the floor of the deck. In an instant, Isabela was there to scoop her up, holding the woman close in a tight embrace. She rested her head on top of Marian's, stroking her hair and doing everything in her power to soothe her.

The pirate's gaze shot back to Taarbas, hoping to see something there that she wasn't actually sure she would. Asari stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. She was saying something into his ear while her eyes looked at Marian and Isabela. Taarbas' gaze was elsewhere, either on the city or somewhere ambiguously middle distance. Something Asari said jogged him from it, however, and his steely violet gaze fell on Marian.

His face softened for only a moment before he visibly hardened his resolve and rowed on.


	36. Adrift

They had no choice but to go north. Still on field rations, there was absolutely no way they could get back to Seere for the _Hawke's Flight_ or even to drop off the non-Qunari in the group for their own guaranteed safety. Isabela obediently kept the tiller on course directly to meet with the _aqunvaraad_ , the Qunari naval ships forming the blockade along the southern coastline of Par Vollen. Asari promised that they would avoid capture, that her word should be respected by even the crudest of sailors.

Isabela wasn't so sure. She still worried over her role in the fiasco dealing with the Tome of Koslun, at how the Arishok considered her the ultimate culprit, at how even Taarbas still referred to her frequently as "thief" rather than the preferable "captain" or—Maker forbid—her name. If there was an image of her anywhere, like so many wanted fliers in towns she had been, she would be doomed on sight. If Asari had enough sway to wiggle them out of _that_ mess, the pirate would owe the Qunari one of the biggest boons she'd ever owed anyone apart from Marian.

She didn't want to think about what that implied.

Marian had fallen asleep in a pile of spare rigging, the sailcloth wrapped about her like a blanket and her head supported by a pile of coiled rope. Despite her thrashing from apparent nightmares, no one had the urge to wake her. She needed her rest as they all needed their rest. Taarbas and Fenris continued to row off and on even after the sail had been set. They were determined to make good time, and the elf practically glowed in the dark due to relying on his lyrium markings for energy. Eventually, Isabela called for them to stop. Rushing in the dark would get them nowhere.

Fenris took that as his cue to stretch out on his bench and nap. His lyrium markings guttered out like a candle left in the rain, and it was not long at all before his chest rose and fell in a deep and steady rhythm. Taarbas was less inclined to allow himself to sleep. Instead, he paced the meager deck that ran along the middle, raised above the five rows of benches for the oars. He eyed up Varric keeping watch at the prow, Isabela still maintaining her grip on the tiller, and he let loose a grunt of exasperation before he stomped over to the latter.

"I cannot abide feeling useless. Not right now."

The pirate captain's amber eyes met his gaze evenly. She shrugged. "You're more useless exhausted than well-rested. Take the opportunity while we have it."

He sighed but ultimately could not argue with her. His whole body sagging with resignation, he stepped over to where Marian was curled up in her sailcloth, looking as small and helpless as a frightened child. He sat down beside her, resting his back and head against the railing and a hand on the woman's arm to calm her. It was in that same position that sleep eventually took him.

Asari was the only other that remained awake. She came to sit next to Isabela on the bench that spanned the entire stern. The tiller was between them, Isabela's arm resting on it in a deceptively casual position. The baby was no longer tied to the kossith woman but instead snugly cradled in her arms, blanket covering all but the tiny, sleeping face.

"I have decided to call her Talan for now," the tall, golden woman said softly, her face barely containing the smile of beaming radiance. "She's our little truth-teller."

Isabela glanced over and managed a small half-smile in reply. She had considered the child a constant liability since the dog had wandered over with her. Being a mother had never been something that she, particularly, had aspired to. That didn't mean, however, that she couldn't admit to how cute the baby was or how fascinating that the same "liability" had proven to be more of an asset on multiple occasions. She just couldn't picture herself with Asari's level of enthusiasm for the miniature human.

"Do you have children?" she asked, unthinking, merely trying to spark up some conversation to keep herself awake.

Asari's attention shot up to her, as if in alarm. "Me? Oh, no. No, no, Qunari don't have children. I mean—well, we don't have children the way _bas_ have children. But I don't have any, no."

"You want them?"

"Whether I want them or not is irrelevant. That's just not the way it's done."

"I should have guessed," Isabela commented with a slight chuckle. "Is there anything Qunari do that has any resemblance at _all_ to other societies?"

She hadn't meant it as a serious question (one more rhetorical, really), but the kossith woman promptly scowled and fell into deep thought. A minute later, she looked back up at the captain, an almost sheepish expression on her face as she gnawed on her lip.

"What do you mean?" she asked in a small voice.

Isabela had to keep herself from laughing for fear of waking the others. "What do I mean? For starters, you are the first Qunari I've ever met that showed any emotion apart from anger. Even Taarbas." She nodded over to the Qunari in question, noting that his hand still rested on Hawke's arm, and his head now lolled to the side as if he still kept watch over her in his sleep. "I've seen two things from him: anger and sadness. You? I can't even explain it, I don't think. Your level of enthusiasm is akin to this Dalish elf I'm friends with."

"There's nothing in the Qun that says we must be stoic," Asari replied matter-of-factly. "Could it be just that you've only met soldiers until now? I'll wager that's what it is. They are our face to the outside world, the Ariqun and Arigena not allowing for anyone else after your Chantry attacked us those centuries ago. Soldiers are hardened by blood and battle and death. It's not that they don't feel...merely that they deem it a weakness to show it. A preference, not a rule."

"And that's another thing," Isabela went on, picking up a new thread of thought from Asari's explanation, "your Qun. You all know it inside and out, forwards and backwards and upside-down. You live it to the letter, and if you stray, you die. What kind of life is that? There is no freedom, no choice." Her eyes flashed over to Marian, a look similar to desperation tearing across her countenance. "No love, no passion. You're in a box. And if you leave that box, you die. You _think_ about leaving that box, and you're punished."

Asari's bearing had changed, her face grown solemn and her posture more stiff. For a moment, Isabela could no longer see anything of Merrill's innocence in her but everything of Grand Cleric Elthina's unbiased wisdom. It was a mental sensation that almost made her stomach drop. Where the perception came from, she could not fathom. When the kossith woman spoke again, her voice was quiet but firm, all Tamassran as it had been with Taarbas just the night before.

"As it is written, 'Choice is an illusion in an ocean of souls.' Even for you as you are now." She locked eyes with Isabela as she said those words, golden eyes boring into amber. "Do you pursue freedom because you want to or because it is a necessity? Did you choose the ocean because it is boundless, or did it call you to its pounding surf and rolling waves? Or, conversely, does this freedom actually encompass everything that pursues _you_ , and you merely run from it? Even so, you do not willingly sail against the wind or current and even to attempt such usually proves fruitless. Am I correct?"

The captain had absolutely no idea which question it really was that she was supposed to answer. So, she remained silent.

Asari went on as if it had merely been her turn for rhetorical questions. " _Banisera_ did not choose what she is any more than I have, or even you. I live to fulfill my purpose in this world whatever that may be—as everyone does, whether they acknowledge it or not. And that is why we say that to deny one's purpose is death. It doesn't necessarily mean that one will _physically_ die, though there has been many the Arishok who enjoys the literal interpretation. It means this: if I were to take your ship from you, your access to the sea, the wind from your hair, and the breath of salt air from your lungs, what would that do to you?"

"It would kill me," Isabela breathed almost reflexively. She shook her head quickly, her eyes screwed shut as if she were trying to resist some element of sense from all the proselytizing. "But that says nothing of freedom. You hold yourselves to such strict tenets, it amazes me that your kind still lives...though I feel that's...relative. You're definitely _alive_ , but _living_ is a whole different matter."

The kossith giggled, her eyes regaining their more youthful shine. "The first thing we learn in the _viddathlok_ as we train to be _tamassran_ is that interpretation is everything. Certainly, there are particular interpretations of the Qun that Ariqun after Ariqun has preferred since Koslun led the kossith out of a life of mindless barbarity, but they are not the only ones.

"My favorite _qunra_ , my assigned teacher, had a flower garden of which she was immensely proud. She would hold class there, the six of us crowded around her, sitting on the circular benches in the middle of it all. The scent was overwhelmingly sweet, and she said she intentionally exposed us to that, saying that our noses would never let us forget the profound wisdom of the Qun as we learned to recite and interpret it. The flowers served a second purpose. After I was inducted into the _viddathlok_ as _tamassran_ instead of pupil, Qunra explained to me that those flowers came from places all over the world. _Ashkaari_ had collected them from wherever they had traveled, adding to our collective wisdom and appreciation. There were large and vibrant blossoms from Antiva and Rivain; clusters of aromatic florets from further south in vastly unknown Ferelden; plants from Tevinter that had no blooms at all but excreted natural healing balms, a fact she found ironic yet potent.

"She told me that day that the true reason she kept that garden, always surrounded herself with these plants that came from all over, was because it reminded her of the Qun. There are many interpretations, she said, many ways to look at the same issue and come out with a different answer. But the differences don't ultimately matter. Every interpretation is beautiful, alone or in chorus with the others, just like the flowers in that garden."

Asari's eyes once again met Isabela's. "My point is," she said, "that freedom is in the interpretation as it is for anything else—even for your own beliefs. For does the Chant of Light not say, 'Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter'?Who decides what is 'corrupt' and who is 'wicked'? Your Chantry certainly claims it does, but every believer is entrusted to know the difference, no? Freedom to interpret, no matter who you are, I believe to be the only freedom one ever truly has. Faith or no faith, your life is what you make of it."

Isabela's eyebrows shot up. "Those sound like radical thoughts for a Qunari to have."

"According to whom? Me, a _tamassran_ well versed in the Qun? Or you, an outsider exposed only to our brutish warriors, most likely conversing at sword point if at all? They _are_ brutes, you have to admit. Hence why they're tasked to obey orders and not properly think for themselves." She turned to look over her shoulder, her gaze moving far away as if trying to make out the distant line of the horizon where they had left Kont-Aar behind. "They do have their moments, though. _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun_. Rest, my brothers. We will return for your souls."

A deep silence fell between them. Isabela was lost to her thoughts as she guided the boat by the light of distant stars. Asari mouthed words in Qunari, sometimes a little audibly, as she appeared to pray to the fallen. Snoring carried to them from the prow where Varric had inadvertently fallen asleep at his post. Sleep must take them all eventually, the pirate admitted to herself as she stifled a mighty yawn of her own. The night was long, but the dawn couldn't be far off. The moon had already long since vanished from its place in the sky.

She would have to awaken someone to replace her. Marian had slept the longest, but Isabela was so hesitant to break her from slumber. She had stopped thrashing, looked to be sleeping deeply, the comforting hand of a kossith weighty against the nightmares. Interpretation. Everything in this world, including the thrice-damned Qun, was open to interpretation.

Isabela inhaled a deep breath to prevent another yawn. It tasted of pure freedom.


	37. Aqunaran

It was the noontime sun that saw them approach the _aqunvaraad_. A long row of massive dark ships lay against the horizon, sails furled but flags flying with the brilliant red blazon of the House of Tides. To the east, the barricade seemed endless. To the west was the same. The entire southern coastline of Par Vollen was guarded by a massive and impenetrable naval unit.

Marian was at the tiller. Isabela had given up trying to keep herself awake just before dawn, and the Champion had been more than willing to trade off. It was only fair. The captain was now curled up in the sailcloth, but it looked more like she was trying to keep herself hidden from the rest of the world as much as to keep off the sun and spray. Varric was back on watch, still groggy, but his mind and attention both sharpened when the Qunari ships came into view. Taarbas and Fenris were back to rowing but with significantly less urgency. It was the calm of reaching the home stretch, and Marian couldn't fault them for it.

As she had with Isabela, Asari was sitting beside Marian at the stern. It was uncertain if she had slept at all, but she didn't look any worse for wear. The baby was awake again and drinking more of the elfroot-spindleweed potion. Marian had suggested adding a few drops of lyrium to increase the potency. If someone else had thought it a good idea (and said idea had worked save for the digestion issue), it couldn't hurt to keep trying. As a Templar, she knew what the blue liquid was capable of, and she hoped that it actually helped. Thus far, the baby wasn't complaining.

"They will ask questions," Asari suddenly blurted nervously. "Please...let me talk."

"There is some reason I shouldn't speak for myself?" Marian's tone brinked on incredulous.

"These ships are military. When you first met our Arishok, was he open to listening to you?"

"No."

"Then I hope you understand my insistence."

The course was maintained for a ship directly ahead. Asari stated that it didn't matter which ship they approached and boarded, merely that they get to one. They were a definite curiosity out there in the open. The closer they got to the naval ships, the more they were able to spot inquisitive Qunari sailors lining up along the railings, poking their heads out of portholes, or pausing from their places amidst the rigging.

It was a silent several minutes as they drew up alongside one of the ships. The Qunari watched but said nothing audible—not even to each other—as Hawke and her tiny grew gathered themselves up and prepared to do whatever it was that they needed to get help. Asari moved to where she was most visible and waved up to the sailors, declaring her rank and that the others were Qunari or _basalit-an_. Marian ducked over to awaken Isabela and coax her into the open. The pirate fought her at first, practically quaking with fear at the prospect of captured over the ordeal with the Tome no matter that it had been resolved years before.

Marian gently grasped her by the soldiers. "They have to come through me, first. You know that." And with a smile that masked her own fears, the Champion hugged her friend tightly as if that act alone would keep Isabela completely safe.

Rope ladders with wooden rungs were eventually dropped over the side along with ropes to tether the small fishing vessel to the much larger ship. The companions climbed in pairs. Taarbas and Asari went first, followed by Fenris and Varric, and finally by Marian and Isabela. Swoop whined as he paced about in circles, but there was naught that could be done for him just then. Mabari might be some of the smartest creatures in Thedas, but they couldn't climb ladders without those enviable thumbs. Huffing a breath through his nose, he turned one more time and laid himself down to wait.

It felt like the whole crew was waiting for them when they set foot on deck. Row upon row of Qunari stood upon the dark wooden planking with elves trying to push their way past the taller humans and kossith to get a better view. There were no dwarves. The realization made Varric feel a bit like a rare gem in a pile of charcoal...but a rare gem in a pile of charcoal in a booby-trapped room full of smugglers. He stepped closer to Asari and really wished that even touching Bianca wouldn't be seen as an act of war. He could have used the comfort.

There was a barked order in gruff Qunari, and the entire crowd suddenly snapped to attention, arms straight to the sides and faces staring blankly forward. Marian and the others, however, looked to where the sound came from. With purposeful steps, a kossith female was descending the stairs from the aft castle deck. Her skin was a dull silver, her horns like they were carved from dark slate. Her eyes were a piercing rusty gray, and her bearing was tall and broad. Her hair was long on top but shorn close to her scalp at the back of her head, giving her an odd look of feminine masculinity. Her clothing was simple. She wore a fitted, sleeveless tunic of crimson linen, cropped beneath the bustline to expose a tight midriff patterned with blood-red tattoos. Her arms were covered with more of the same along with bronze cuffs that looked more like they served as protective bracers than decoration. She wore long trousers of black leather belted with sashes of red and white. Her feet were bare.

" _Shanedan, aqunaran_ ," Asari said to her with a nod of the head. "Our thanks for allowing us aboard. Your charity does you great hon-"

"I don't need the ceremony, _tamassran_ ," the other kossith female snapped, her arms crossing over her chest as if in defiance. "I find Qunari adrift in a rowboat. It's my _duty_ to bring them aboard. It's not charity." Her eyes drifted over each of them in turn, her brow furrowed as she took in the layers of dried blood and filth, bruises, wounds, and weariness. Her gaze became more scrutinizing when it found Marian, her mind trying to puzzle out the human armed as _karasten,_ dressed as _ben-hassrath,_ and wearing the insignia of _taarbas_. "Who are you?"

Asari took a step forward, "We are-"

"I asked the human, _tamassran._ Not you."

Asari paled, gulped, and fell back into line beside Varric. Hesitantly, he reached up a hand and squeezed hers to reassure her, but her squeeze back was so feeble, he knew his effort had been in vain.

Marian looked from her friend to the other kossith female and back again, slight confusion marring her features. She had expected a _tamassran_ to be respected by all other ranks amongst Qunari, given their overall purpose. What she was seeing was quite the opposite. She attempted to clear her throat before she said anything. Why was her mouth suddenly so dry?

"My name amongst _basra_ is Marian Hawke," she stated more clearly than she expected of herself. "Since leaving Kirkwall, I've been known as _basalit-an, viddathari, ashkaari, banisera,_ and most recently _ben-hassrath_. Clarifying is a very long story. Those with me are Qunari or _basalit-an_."

"And how is it that we plucked you from the sea in a boat from Kont-Aar?" Aqunaran, as Marian could only guess that to be her title from what Asari said, gestured to the sail painted with a fading symbol of the House of Tides. "The last vessel to come from that port was full of frightened warriors, disgracing and pissing themselves over some nonsense about _vashun_. They said the city was gone." She glanced over to Taarbas with his smearings of black warpaint. "Yet, here you are."

Isabela sputtered in disbelief, forgetting herself and her fear for all the rage she suddenly felt. "You mean to say that you _knew_ about the situation on shore and you didn't send help?" Marian quickly grabbed her before she could leap across the deck and pummel Aqunaran to the ground.

The female kossith's eyes narrowed further. "Our duty, _bas_ , is to protect Par Vollen. The Triumvirate did hear the cowards out, those we let pass. The Arishok maintained confidence in his warriors posted to the colony, and we were ordered to hold. There was no further distress."

"And your inaction left them all to die," Asari exclaimed, authority flooding into her voice in place of the frantic emotions she actually felt. "Over thirty thousand Qunari fell victim to the _vashun_ 'nonsense'...and you just sat here and didn't even try to investigate?" Her tone almost fell to pleading by the time she was done, but that didn't change the fact that she'd stormed across the short distance between them and was glaring directly into the other's impassive face.

"I was following orders," came the heated retort.

Asari's face flared scarlet. " _Men_ blindly follow orders. _Women think_. One ship of fleeing soldiers would not sway the Triumvirate, no, but I would expect the smoke of the dead to arouse suspicions in the entire naval blockade that could see it!" The woman jabbed her finger viciously back in the direction they had come, the baby gurgling in protest against her chest. "For days we burned them," she practically screamed, tears of frustration pouring from her eyes, " _and you just sat here_."

Aqunaran stood firm only for a moment more before she let out a long breath and deflated with it. The sailors around her gave no reaction to the argument that had exploded, and for that, she was certainly grateful. The entire blockade had been ordered to stand fast, that defense of the coastline was of utmost importance and their only priority. She had seen the massive column of black and acrid smoke that had risen from the distant horizon where Kont-Aar lay. She knew the other _aqunaran_ had, too. But the Triumvirate dictated, and they obeyed. She would _not_ feel ashamed for doing her duty to the Qun, but she wasn't so sure how her conscience would feel in the future if what the _tamassran_ said was right.

It was another minute before anyone said anything. Aqunaran stared at Asari, and Asari glared right back. Marian and Isabela exchanged uneasy looks while Varric fidgeted, tugging at the collar of his open jacket like it was somehow too tight. Fenris and Taarbas were expressionless yet tense, very much like the mass of sailors standing about them who were pretending to be disinterested. There was no telling how this would turn out for anyone, and the Kirkwallers were still too unfamiliar with Qunari behavior to hazard a guess.

"You should get cleaned up," Aqunaran said finally, motioning across the deck to a coil of cloth-covered piping wound about some sort of pump. "The whole lot of you reeks of _vashun_. Clean clothes will be provided." She simply snapped her fingers and three elves and a human dressed in the garb of _viddathari_ dashed off in response. "Luncheon is being prepared as we stand here...wasting time. We will discuss what needs to be done as we eat."

And without any other acknowledgment to the group, she turned and walked off in the same direction she had come from. Females dressed similarly but with no body art flocked to her, and immediately started rattling off various things in Qunari that could have easily been about the weather or the state of the ship.

There was a small rush of wind. At least, it seemed like there _should_ have been a small rush of wind as everyone released the breaths they had been holding all at once. The Qunari sailors had gone back about their business, and Marian and the others finally felt a little less ill at ease.

"Okay, so what was that?" Varric asked as Asari came back to join them. "Is that what you Qunari call diplomacy? Let me give you a bit of advice: tactics like that didn't help your Arishok with Kirkwall, and they almost didn't help you just then with your own kind. I think you really need to reconsider your problem-solving paradigm."

"I'm sorry," Asari conceded, her attention refocusing on the child she was charged to care for, "but there is one thing you need to understand...and that, yes, I need to remember. Qunari are one thing. But kossith? We are a very passionate people. It has always been so."

"Could have fooled me," Isabela muttered.

"The Qun is meant to keep us tempered. To keep those emotions in check. I...forgot myself for a moment." She looked over to Taarbas. "You should take the others to get cleaned up."

Taarbas merely nodded and began to walk over in the direction of the pump and hose. Fenris followed and grabbed Varric by the arm on the way. The dwarf resisted a little, claiming he was far too shy to bathe in public—especially in front of mixed company, strangers, and ladies he actually had respect for. The elf promised he wouldn't let anyone else see how much chest hair he really had if it was that much of an issue. The genuine laughter that followed was the best thing Marian had heard in days.


	38. Panahedan, Kadan

To those that have never seen a Qunari dreadnaut, it is quite the thing to behold. It is a ship longer than any other in known Thedas, broader, and made of a wood so hard that even elves swear that it is likely ironbark. It is a marvel of engineering with two helms, two levels of gunports armed with bronze cannons, sails arranged more economically than even the most expert Antivan shipwrights could conceive, and housing for more than four hundred souls while still being able to cut through choppy seas at fifteen knots under full-sail. The Raiders avoided the north seas. For good reason.

Isabela fell in love the moment she got over her irritation with Aqunaran. The _viddathari_ that had been charged to wait on them were curious and a little amused by her behavior, her broad smiles, her childlike glee. Marian didn't need to remind herself that this was the woman who loved big boats. Really loved them. She half-wondered if the reason why the pirate was so promiscuous while ashore was due to being separated from her one and only true love and was trying desperately to fill the void. She realized immediately that trying to apply logic to such a situation would get no one nothing but a headache.

They were being escorted to the mess for luncheon. Both women were as freshly cleaned as salt water could get them, hair bound up tightly with red cording, and they were dressed identically in similar uniforms to the ship's officers—the red sleeveless tunics and black trousers. The officers, it turned out, were almost all female, the males designated to common sailor ranks or soldiers serving aboard the ship as its standing military. What they found when they got to their destination was just as surprising for two women who had spent most of their time in the Chantry-saturated south.

The level of noise was amazing. The room was full of bodies—kossith, human, elven—pressed together in no particular order as they laughed and caroused and ate. Marian decided right then that kossith smiles would probably never get old. It had been a rare enough thing to see from Taarbas even once he got comfortable around them all. To see kossith, not just Qunari, in their own element had a feeling of newness that was positively exhilarating.

Isabela was instructed to sit with the _viddathari_ , and Varric was already there, regaling the lot of them (mostly elves) with stories of their exploits in Kirkwall and the journey here. He had their rapt attention but looked up just long enough to toast Marian with his glass of water and shoot her a wink. Isabela gave her friend's arm a squeeze before she sat down, passing on a wink of her own before she nudged Marian further along to the table where Fenris and Taarbas were crowded in with Asari, Aqunaran, and a few of the other officers.

"I trust everything is satisfactory, Ben-Hassrath?" Aqunaran, the obvious captain, asked in fluid Qunari as Marian approached and tried to find a space to sit on the long wooden bench crowded with bodies. She wound up wedged between Asari and a rather stiff, cotton-smocked Fenris.

"Yes, Aqunaran, thank you." Marian looked quizzically to Asari for some explanation that the _ben-hassrath_ title was being used so officially, now, but got no response. She thought it had only been borrowed armor. Was she not _viddathari_ here? A plate of spiced fish was placed in front of her, and she very quickly forgot anything else she might have been worried about. Stopping the hunger pangs took priority.

"We were discussing the current affairs as Asari has been able to relate them to me. I do apologize for my...gruffness earlier. I stand by the orders we received and followed. However, we need to get you and the _tamassran_ back to Par Vollen quickly to ensure this disaster is handled in as timely a manner as possible. The Ariqun must know. And the Arigena."

"What of the Arishok?"

"He had most of the military sent to the front in Seheron. He must surely be notified as well, but the other two are your best bet for expediency. Not all battles are fought with swords." Aqunaran punctuated that remark with a healthy bite of her food. "I have already sent messages to the surrounding ships. We will sail back in the morning, and they will close in the gap. Abandoning our current duty for this cause will be forgiven—I'm sure of it."

"I will ensure that you receive all due honors, Aqunaran," Asari said. She was looking at the captain but struggling to get the baby in her arms to consume something other than medicine at the same time. It was almost comical, the infant mashing food bits all over her face rather than letting it go in her mouth. Marian couldn't help but smile. Whatever the physician was giving her, it was working well enough. Looking at the child, it was impossible to see that she carried the Blight disease unless you got a close look at her slightly milky eyes. Otherwise, her skin was a healthy color and she had energy. Promising signs.

Taarbas cleared his throat politely. "And the skiff, Aqunaran? I may have use of that?"

The female kossith looked over at him, her motion sharp almost as if she had been startled out of some thought.

"Of course. I have already assigned a crew of twelve to sail you back to Seere."

Marian tried to look around Fenris to see her kossith companion, but the head of platinum white hair was always in the way. The elf even tried to move out of her way. It didn't work. The table behind them had gotten involved in a rowdy game of...charades? Whatever it was, they'd pushed their benches away from the table and had Marian's whole row crammed in even tighter.

And that was how the rest of the meal passed: cramped, crowded, close. The conversation was easy. Aqunaran actually was curious about life elsewhere in the world, particularly Ferelden as the country was remote enough to almost have a mythical quality to those native of the archipelago.

The mess emptied out in stages, groups of Qunari dispersing a little at a time as if going back on shift wherever they worked on the massive ship. As soon as a path was clear, Taarbas rose and took his leave, giving Aqunaran a nod of respect. It was unprefaced and sudden. Even Frenris was surprised when the large man seated next to him decided to get up and leave. He shifted over when he noticed that Marian was fidgeting, shooting looks over her shoulder as the kossith retreated across the long hallway of the mess. He let her get up to take care of whatever was bothering her.

She caught up with him in the hallway that led to the barracks. His posture was stiff, his shoulders hunched and head down. It was like he knew she was there, could identify her steps, the cadence of her breathing, and he hoped beyond hope that she didn't actually see him. When she grabbed his arm to get his attention, he stopped walking but didn't look at her.

"What is this, Taarbas," she demanded, looking him in the face even if he refused to do likewise. "You don't talk to me for two days...and then decide you're just going to leave and not even tell me _that_?"

He gave no immediate response, but his jaw clenched. She could see the veins popping out along his temples through thin wisps of his pale hair. When he finally spoke, it was low, almost secretive, and his eyes kept shooting about to ensure they were alone.

"I am denied Par Vollen unless I return with the Qunari blades. It is my sworn duty to the Qun."

Marian almost laughed in disbelief, her mind torn between irritation and relief. The cargo they'd been forced to leave on the _Hawke's Flight_ when they decided on an overland route to Kont-Aar...in all the chaos that had ensued since, she'd almost totally forgotten. Her expression softened as she squeezed his arm encouragingly. "You should have said. I'll go with-"

"No, _kadan_." His voice was firm but low and gentle. "You must go with Asari and the others. Your purpose lies in Par Vollen."

"Sataareth-"

"Is not enough. I need the weapon of every single Qunari that was lost in Kirkwall. You would not-"

"Understand?" It was Marian's turn to interrupt. She crossed her arms over her chest, an eyebrow rising on her forehead, her eyes taking on a dangerous glint. "I do. I understand quite clearly. But it doesn't change the fact that that jungle is crawling with darkspawn. I...I just couldn't..."

Voices carried from further along the narrow passageway. Laughing, speaking fluent Qunari. Taarbas guided Marian by the shoulder further along and into one of the bunks. Four netted hammoks hung unused on the walls. A small lamp was bolted to the wall and giving off that same magnesium light that had illumined the _viddathlok_. There was no privacy amidships, but one could always try.

" _Kadan_ ," he began, his body more relaxed and his tone resigned, "I wish I could convey...better...to you how I need to do this alone. I am what I am because of a mistake. And only I can correct that mistake."

"Was the mistake yours?"

He blinked at her, taken aback, almost alarmed. At least, that's how it appeared to her.

"...No. But I am still responsible."

She nodded, her arms still crossed but relaxed, her eyes lowered. She stared at his boots, the black trousers, the bare waist where his crimson sash should have been, the sash she was wearing instead. The warpaint had been completely washed from his chest. No obvious wounds. No sign of infection. When she met his eyes again, she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. He was asking her to trust that he wouldn't fall prey to the darkspawn. That they wouldn't grow bolder and take Seere as they had Kont-Aar. When they had first encountered them, it was mere leagues outside the village. Who knows what two days (or nights, or both) of progress could have granted them.

She couldn't help it. She knew the fear was irrational, yet it had been proven to her time and again that it was very real. She lost her village, her brother and sister, the entire _karataam_ of the Vashoth Stenok. All were gone to the darkspawn, the _vashun_. She would not— _could_ not—risk losing Taarbas as well.

"The Bassrath-Kata," she said quietly, her voice quaking even as she kept her eyes locked with his, "you must take it."

"It is yours."

"You gave it to me out of those of the fallen."

He shook his head. "That one never belonged to the fallen. The one it was made for is now unworthy of bearing it, so it was given to one that was."

It took her a while to absorb his words. She stared at him in incomprehension for what seemed like hours, her mind whirring but going nowhere. Then, like the popping of the magnesium light jolted her back from whatever mental abyss she was circling, her mouth dropped open. She suddenly knew. And all she could feel was despair.

Her hands reached up for his face. Her mouth was trying to form words but tragically failing. He grabbed her wrists before she could touch him, one in each of his large hands. She was almost like a child in comparison, small, thin, frail. Her warrior's build counted for nothing in the shadow of a kossith. His grip was light but solid enough that she couldn't break free. If she had even wanted to break free. She knew herself better than that.

"Do not fret, _kadan_. Not for this and not for me. I will be fine."

"I should be going with you." Her voice was soft, almost inaudible. The breath was too hard to push out.

He actually smiled. But it was not a smile of mirth or even satisfaction. He didn't speak even as he dropped his gaze, staring at her hands, relaxed, slender fingers curled. So small and fragile to him. He raised them to his lips and softly, so tenderly, kissed each palm.

" _Panahedan, kadan_ ," he said as he released her, his voice little more than a low vibration. "I will find you."

And he left her there, surprised and aching. He walked away calmly, resolutely, the sound of his steady strides fading as he went further down the corridor and to whatever secret place Aqunaran had assigned him. Before dawn broke the following morning, he was already gone. The skiff had departed with the assigned hands. Swoop had even gone with them, Varric told her. It had been the mabari that insisted. The Qunari merely acquiesced.

Hawke heard none of this. Her body was numb, her head filled with wool. She couldn't think or reason. That thing she had told Isabela wasn't true. She had lied all this time and it didn't surprise her to realize it. Taarbas had gone off into the sea mists of northern Rivain, back to a place that reeked of uncertainty, and it felt like her soul was being slowly torn from her, tugging at her chest, leaving her raw.

Blood from a stone.


	39. The Far Shores of Par Vollen

It barely took them a day to leave the blockade and sail to the main southern port of the island nation of Par Vollen. Isabela had watched intently from the moment they set sails, her amber eyes gleaming as she watched two helmsmen turn the ship completely around without the aid of any smaller watercraft. That had to have been what the second helm wheel was for...extra maneuverability. Clever. And impossible with the technology known in the south. Was it a second rudder? She _had_ to find out. She wanted one, whatever it was.

When the island came into view, it wasn't quite what the pirate had expected. For a culture like the Qunari, she had expected high walls, fortresses, hundreds of military ships at port or in shipyards. She expected to see thousands of tiny specks patrolling avenues and mountain ridges. What she actually saw was quite different. The island was mountainous but completely lush and green, as if the entire thing had grown upon a dormant volcano. There was no visible port for a while until the dreadnaut rounded a narrow peninsula, and even then, it wasn't the grandiose thing Isabela had actually hoped to see.

It was a harbor for fishing boats and short-range vessels not unlike Seere. A small village squatted close to the shore, following the contour of the low foothills but just barely. The buildings were all low, whitewashed affairs of stone with roofs of black slate. No walls, no visible farmland, no visible signs of life _at all_ beyond that single tiny village.

 _Well, isn't that all anticlimactic_ , she grumbled to herself, crossing her arms and putting all her weight on one leg. She stood at the prow with the wind in her face. She wanted to see the whole process of drawing into shore from the best possible vantage point. She wasn't allowed in the crow's nest, not any of the three. This would have to do.

She had hoped that Marian would at least be there with her. After all, isn't this what they had traveled so far for? To _be_ right here, right now? Par Vollen. That place that no one not of the Qunari was ever allowed to truly see. But she was here, and Varric and Fenris. She was seeing all this with her own eyes, the lush green and now the flowers and colors of people's clothing that became more pronounced as they neared. She could see the soldiers lining the pier at sparse intervals. Lightly guarded...no walls... _maybe_ a guard tower or two...what sort of Qunari settlement was this?

They could only draw in so far. The water was too shallow for the size of the hull, and Aqunaran ordered for the anchor to be dropped when they were still several hundred yards off shore. Longboats were uncovered and rigged up to pulley systems, a small number of the crew preparing to go ashore with Hawke and her companions.

Where _was_ Hawke? Isabela looked around amidst the bustle of the deck, looking anywhere and everywhere for that head of blazing red hair. She spotted Varric near one of the masts, sitting on a pile of rigging jotting something down in his little notebook. Fenris was aiding the crew in getting everything ready. Apparently, there was a small bit of cargo that had to go ashore as well. Nothing major from the appearance of it. Or, maybe they were just empty crates ready for resupply. Isabela suspected the latter given her experience.

The dwarf. The elf. No fearless leader. With a heavy sigh, Isabela made her way to the hatch that led belowdecks, making her way back to the tiny bunk she had shared with Marian and where, if her gut was telling her correctly, she would still find her.

The hallways were crowded with bodies, mostly kossith, as the Qunari continued to go about their normal duties despite the change in plans. Isabela was forced to turn herself sideways to get past most of them even as they turned sideways to get past her. The women would nod and smile in greeting while the men barely gave her a passing glance. There were no snide comments, no hungry leers or dirty looks. There was, however, a wealth of respect, and it was not something Isabela was used to receiving, not even from her own crew.

She had expected to find Marian curled up in her hammock, moping, crying...unless she'd taken a sword to the room, first. That seemed to be her way of dealing with male abandonment, anyway, if the incident following Sebastian's negligence was anything to go on. Isabela couldn't believe that that had only been a few weeks ago, that whole mess in Kirkwall.

Just a few weeks, but the change in Marian was astounding.

The Champion was not curled into a helpless ball of self-pity when Isabela reached the doorway. Instead, she was sitting up on a low sea trunk, running a whetstone along the length of the Bassrath-Kata. She was dressed in her borrowed (though 'inherited' was a better term) armor, the long tunic cleaned as best as whatever cleaning agent the Qunari used could get it (there was a slight ammonia smell...Isabela didn't want to dwell on it too much). The actual armor bits gleamed, the leather freshly treated and buffed, and Taarbas' sash was bound about her waist. Her face was calm, her lips almost smiling, as she gazed down at the gleaming length of white steel in her hand.

"Not in the mood to redecorate?" Isabela asked after a long moment of leaning against the door frame. The one corner of her mouth was quirked up in playfulness, her eyes glittering. The relief she felt was undeniable.

Marian's smile exposed teeth as she shook her head knowingly. "I have a job to do. I can't waste my time worrying over something I have no control over." She held the sword up in line with her vision, squeezing one eye shut to check for any bending or flaws that would need a smith's attention. Satisfied, she slid the blade soundly into its scabbard at her back as she stood. "I felt us stop moving. Are we at the docks?"

Isabela shrugged. "As close as we're going to get in this floating island. Aqunaran's loading the longboats as we speak."

The other nodded and took a moment to look her friend up and down. A puzzled look marred her features, her eyebrows knitting together over her nose. "Did they not give your clothes back?"

"They did," Isabela replied nonchalantly as she and Marian left the bunk to go back on deck. "This is so much more comfortable."

"Please, don't tell me you're falling victim to practicality."

"Not at all! There's just something so appealing about leather trousers."

The deck was still bustling with activity. All but one of the boats had been lowered, Aqunaran and Asari waiting beside it. Varric was right there at his Qunari friend's side, apparently telling one of his stories. It was apparently punctuated with a joke that he stood with his hands out after delivery, waiting for the expected laughter. Asari grinned awkwardly. The look on Aqunaran's face defied description. Fenris, over the side of the dreadnaut where the longboat hung from the pulley system, poked his head over and said something quickly in Qunari, his cheeks pink from exertion and sunlight. It took the women only a second of thought before they burst out laughing. Isabela really wished she had been close enough to hear or that someone would fill her in. No one did.

They disembarked quickly, the boat smoothly splashing into the water with its load and the male Qunari aboard—Fenris as well—put to work rowing the remaining distance into shore. Two Qunari stood at the pier, making notes on slate tablets as they took note of everything being unloaded from and loaded back into the dreadnaut's longboats. They were dressed in pure white tunics and trousers with sea blue sashes with golden fringe. Both were human and unarmed. One was male, his head shaved completely bald. The other was female, her stature a bit below average and her skin the dusky mocha of Rivain. Aqunaran gave simple instructions: report to the _armaas_ and be quickly about their business. It was very likely that the Arigena already knew the dreadnaut was in port and would require answers.

They parted ways there. Asari urged Hawke and her companions to follow her as she set off at a brisk pace along a dirt road leading away from the dock and the steady lapping of the waves against the shoreline. It took them directly into the heart of that small village, the inhabitants of varying races mostly moving about dressed in plain white garments similar to those two _armaas._ Some of them had colored sashes. Most didn't. There was a distinct lack of kossith save for the soldiers and a few men and women wearing robes that matched Marian's tunic in color and pattern with belts similar to Asari's. Isabela merely observed and kept her ears open. The Champion was asking all the same questions she had.

"This is actually an internment camp," Asari explained lowly, keeping her voice down out of what could only be perceived as politeness for the people about them. "Those given colors are _viddathari_ being examined for a particular trade and function. Those not...are still finding their way."

It wasn't until they were further inland that anyone became disturbed. Fenris caught sight of an area surrounded by a high wooden fence. The gaps in the wood were significant enough to be able to see in. What he saw was a collection of people, mostly elven and human, in little more than filthy smallclothes, their hands bound behind them and their mouths gagged. Some, he noticed, actually had their lips stitched shut with thick cording. The phrase "internment camp" had already alerted him that this was an entire village of slaves...but they had looked free to go about their business, were so lightly guarded it was pitiful, and had every access to freedom if they so chose. This—this pen—was a different matter entirely.

"What goes on here?" he demanded, stopping in his tracks and gesturing pointedly to the miserable wretches on the other side of the coarse wooden planks.

Asari paused to turn and look, taking in both the curious and almost angry elf and that which had him so troubled. "They are prisoners of war," she replied simply, a stiff tone in her voice. "All are _saarebas_ from Tevinter. It is nothing to trouble yourself over, _kadan_." And she made to continue walking.

"What will happen to them?" Fenris was insistent, his face a dark scowl, though Isabela couldn't guess as to why. Last she knew, he was dead-set against mages of all kinds—especially those of Tevinter. To be worried about their well-being? Did he drink the sea water?

"They will convert or die," came the terse reply, the _tamassran_ shooting another look back at the pen that would have withered a whole field of crops. "If they are lucky, they will be allowed to keep their tongues." And she moved on.

Isabela hung behind for the moment it took Fenris to digest that information. She could tell when he did. His face shifted from that deep glower of confusion or displeasure to one of understanding neutrality to another of partially concealed wicked delight. There was a gleam in his eye as he looked back through the gaps, almost like he were searching the faces for any that he knew. Then, wordlessly, he spat on the ground between him and the imprisoned mages and made to move on.

"Are you alright?" the pirate asked him as they picked up pace to catch up to the others.

"Never better," Fenris replied, a small smirk still clinging to his lips. "I never thought I'd be glad to see so many slaves in all my life." He looked over to her, his expression taking on a more sympathetic quality. "And you? I've known you long enough. I can't imagine this is any easier for you than it is for me."

"It is a prison without bars," she stated flatly, shooting a look over her shoulder before the village on the sand could disappear around a bend in the road. "But it's a prison nonetheless."


	40. Life Within the Qun

They did not stop walking until they reached a second village about a mile inland. The jungle was close around them as they traveled the road, but it opened up upon a vast clearing divided into small homesteads. To the west, a tall cliff face loomed over them, the black granite of the stone carved into a massive structure of buildings stacked one on top of another. Marian shielded her eyes from the bright sun as she squinted up and up, noting that the cliff-side settlement was as busy as any other built upon solid ground.

"Is this some Qunari innovation?" she asked Asari conversationally as their kossith guide turned off the main road and onto one that led directly to the base of the village built into the very flesh of the land.

Asari shook her head. "Those that lived here before us built many such settlements. They were master architects, and we have endeavored to keep much of what they left behind."

"Rebuild what you conquer," Fenris spoke up from behind them.

"Exactly," the kossith woman replied, turning her head just enough for him to see the pleased grin on her face. "Following the Qun might be the superior way of thinking, but that does not mean that _basra_ can't be without merit. You are all living proof of that." She turned back to the front. "I just hope the Arigena sees it that way."

They continued on in silence, the lightly cobbled road they followed shaded by manicured palm trees and some wide-blossomed flower Marian had never seen before that was a color brighter than any rose. It sweetened the air around them, and it took her a while to realize that just fifty yards off to the side was a walled pasture full of swine that resembled wild boar more than the domesticated pig so common in Ferelden. The same bushing flowers were planted at the base of the wall on the outside, and it was then that she realized it was a strategically placed barrier against the usual barnyard stench. Even flowers served their purpose.

It was several minutes before they reached the base of the cliff, a single arched doorway open to them that led to a steep set of stairs carved out of the rock. Troughs of that burning oil they'd been introduced to in Kont-Aar lit their way up...and up and up and up. Marian could hear Isabela behind them, counting each and every step. Varric panted for breath before very long, but he continued without verbal complaint. He didn't even crack a joke. It could have been because he was too tired. But it also could have been his claustrophobia keeping him quiet. A dwarf that was afraid of the underground. There was almost no coming to terms with that. If Marian had looked back, she would have seen Isabela tightly holding his hand. It was only natural to seek comfort for a mutual fear.

There was an audible sigh of relief when they emerged into daylight once more. They had passed several doorways that emptied out into the tiered settlement, but Asari had taken them almost to the very top. The buildings were actually carved deeper into the stone than the view from the ground had allowed them to see, but every row was alternated to not compromise the structural integrity. Carvings and mosaics covered the walls. Some depicted kossith warriors in raging battles against what could only be the magisters of Tevinter. Others appeared to be far older and were reminiscent of the monstrous beasts that flanked the main gates of fallen Kont-Aar, gaping jaws, forked tongues, vicious teeth. Marian gulped. Even if their original purpose was to keep bad dreams away, she wagered they managed with flying colors.

The streets were little more than narrow alleyways, and the entire vertical village was as bustling with life as the dreadnaut had been. Kossith, human, elf, all races lived and worked here as farmers and craftsmen. Some _viddathari_ that had earned apprenticeships could also be spotted from time to time. A low murmur echoed. All the voices collected together at the back of the cliff hollow and were breathed out again by the stone, swirling about the newcomers on a cool cave breeze. Laughter, arguments, petty bickering, proclamations of fresh bread. A sort of chant even drifted out to them from within a building with an open front supported by rounded columns. Men and women were inside, bent over large wooden vats of a steaming, reeking liquid. The ammonia smell was powerful, but they didn't seem to notice. They were actually singing, chanting, keeping time as they cleaned piles upon piles of colorful laundry. Marian and her companions paused to stare for a brief moment.

"Those are the whitest whites I've ever seen," Varric breathed. "Whiter than your hair, elf. I didn't think such was possible!"

"Urine," Asari said as she kept walking.

"Ur—what?" the dwarf almost shrieked as they caught up again.

"Urine," Asari repeated. "It's collected in cisterns below every bathhouse and delivered to every washroom. Everything here is cleaned with it."

" _Cleaned_?"

The kossith giggled as she explained what her friends obviously viewed as a disgusting contradiction, waxing scientific when it came to presenting the cleansing properties of common urine regardless of species and that even certain medicines could be made more potent with a concentrated extract. She prattled on and on, Varric visibly paling and Isabela looking like she was going to be sick over the side of the low wall that kept them from falling off the cliff. Only Fenris made the lesson a conversation, claiming that such was also utilized in Tevinter though was kept more of a secret so as not to affect the annual tourism out of Orlais. He had always found it ironic, the magisters cleaning themselves with their own waste. He realized that he could not say the same here.

Eventually, they came to a stop in front of a large building recessed deep into the rock, a broad flight of stairs leading up to a trio of double doors just high enough to allow a full-grown kossith to enter without ducking the head. Qunari filtered in and out, from those dressed in common gray tunics to the more intricate patterns akin to Asari's robes, like it were nothing more than the town market. That turned out to be the case. Inside was one massive room ablaze with bright white flames running through troughs and high up in hanging lamps. It wasn't a market for buying and selling but for providing the surplus of one's own endeavors to the general populace. Crowds formed long queues in front of platforms distributing grains and other produce. Swineherds and butchers passed off pieces of meat. Cloth and leather was provided for tailors. Asari, herself, was momentarily distracted by an elderly woman trying to find those in need of her dried herbs from the previous growing season.

"They're just...giving it all away," Isabela said in disbelief.

"Of course," Asari replied while inspecting a wiry bunch of dried spindleweed. "We have a different definition of 'wealth' here. You saw the _viddathlok_. That is where the true wealth is found. Material possessions are precisely that: material."

"You keep your gold in giant pyramids?"

"Who said that we keep gold anywhere?"

They continued on. Marian had long ago lost track of where it was they were heading exactly, if they had ever been told. It was hard not to become separated in the pressing throng, and she, Isabela, and Varric joined hands to not lose one another. Fenris had no qualms about pushing his way through. But the strange thing about it all was that no one seemed to be curious at all about them. They still had their weapons, and both Fenris and Varric had changed back into their normal clothes once they'd been cleaned aboard the dreadnaut. It wasn't that they _all_ looked as if they fit in. But maybe it was enough.

The far wall loomed in front of them, two stairways branching up from a central hub and following the smooth contour of the solid rock. This they climbed and wound back around, passing one doorway after another much like in the _viddathlok_ library, until Asari stopped and held out a hand. They practically crashed into each other with the abruptness of it all.

" _Banisera_ , you will come with me. The rest of you must wait here. Sit if you must. There is a bench further down." She pointed quickly before focusing completely on Marian. "The Arigena is fluent in the language of trade, but it will be in your best interests to keep everything short, to the point, and in Qunari."

"Should I expect anything like Aqunaran?"

Asari's brow furrowed as she thought. "No...no, I don't think so. She was military. Those of the _gena_ are far more sociable just...don't try to talk about the weather or anything. Knowledge is valuable to me. Time is valuable to them. Does that make sense?"

Marian nodded a single time, and the two of them stepped through the door.

The anteroom was sparsely furnished. The black granite of the walls were hung only with lamps while two benches were provided for those with appointments. The slight form of an elven male sat at a podium beside another door of solid wood. He was dressed in robes of white and violet with a stole of yellow ochre draping his narrow shoulders. A similarly colored cap covered his hair with long tails that trailed down the sides of his wrinkled face. He held a stylus in arthritic fingers as he scratched away at a sheet of parchment, is pale green eyes squinting as if from poor vision.

"Ashlok," Asari spoke up to him, her tone as authoritative as she could force it. "Asari and Ben-Hassrath to see the Arigena."

"Is she expecting you?" His voice creaked as if from disuse. But it could have been from age just as easily.

"We have newly arrived with news from Kont-Aar that is most urgent. We have no appointment."

The elf looked up at them both, his eyes still squinting over his long nose. He then peered back down at the paper before him, his face moving slowly from side to side as he read whatever was written there. "I'm sorry, but the next appointment slot is filled by the fisher union. After that is a meeting with the-"

"Did you not hear the part where this is 'most urgent'?" Marian snapped, stepping boldly forward. She half-expected her friend to try to grab her and drag her back like this was some social faux pas. Nothing of the sort happened. Emboldened, she continued. "A ship from the blockade broke formation to ensure we delivered the news. I can guarantee you that what we have to say trumps any fisher union."

"The Arigena is very busy right now, I-"

"Would be honored to tell her of our arrival," Marian finished for him. "We're more than a little busy, too. Mass deaths to report, _viddathari_ to register, and a soul to put to rest." She pulled Sataareth partially from its scabbard for him to see before snapping it back home.

The elf's mouth fell open with alarm, his squint disappearing in an instant. "The Arishok has perished? But...you said Kont-Aar...not Seheron!"

"Not _that_ Arishok," Asari clarified, more than a little frustration creeping into her voice. " _Qunoran Vehl_ , he who returned the Tome of Koslun."

Only unintelligible gibbering fell from the old man's lips as he quickly amended his appointment dossier. "A moment," he finally muttered, vanishing through the door behind them and closing it firmly.

The two women were forced to wait for a few moments. Asari sat on a bench and finally saw to the tiny form of Talan still bound tightly to her. The baby had remained blissfully silent, napping for nearly the entire time they had walked from the ship to this very room. Marian hoped it was because the potion the physician had concocted was working rather than the child succumbing to the inevitable fate of the blight disease so soon. She paced in the meantime, one hand on her hip while the other massaged her temples. It was then that she noticed her hair was damp with sweat. She had managed to ignore the heat outside in her focus on the task at hand, and the relative coolness of the market hall had had just as much of an acknowledgment.

Five Qunari filed into the room as they waited, all of them male and three of which were kossith. Their skin was bronzed as if by long hours in the sun, but Marian could not say that was actually the case. Perhaps it was like Asari, whose golden skin gleamed in the light of the lamps. No matter what she had seen in Kirkwall, kossith were just as varied as any other race, and like their smiles, it would probably never cease to fascinate her. The men sat down without ceremony, each of them nodding to Asari and addressing her by her _tamassran_ rank in turn. They did the same for Marian as Ben-Hassrath. She didn't miss the fast but bewildered glances when they caught sight of her belt.

Ashlok finally returned.

"Asari, Ben-Hassrath, the Arigena insists upon seeing you." He turned to the newcomers as if their arrival were no terrible surprise. "I do apologize for the disruption, brothers, but an urgent matter has arisen. Come in with the tide, as it were. Your voices will be heard in due course."

And with that, he held open the door for Marian and Asari, his hand sweeping inward to guide them along the short hallway and into the room beyond.


	41. Arigena

"You look confused, Ben-Hassrath."

The warm voice of the Arigena was gentle but stern. Her bronze hands were folded in front of her on the desk of golden teak. Papers were arranged in neat piles, some rolled and tied with flaxen cording or sealed with stamped wax. A couple of low shelves stood against the far wall, a few books arranged upon them, but the bindings were unlike any Marian had ever seen. She couldn't read the titles at all. Her guess was that they were all written in Qunari, which made her feel a little inadequate. All that work learning to speak the language, and she couldn't identify a single letter. A single window was hewn from the stone of the wall, but little could be seen through it.

The Arigena herself was small for a kossith. She couldn't have been any taller than a human, judging by the breadth of her shoulders and the length of her arms. Her white hair had a very faint golden tinge to it where it was bound up and away from her face, piled into a tiered bun between her lengthy, curling horns. She was of middling years with golden eyes surrounded by laugh lines, and _her_ mouth, unlike so many others Marian had seen, was always graced by the faintest traces of a smile that would only become more prominent when she spoke. She wore a dress of pale lavender cloth trimmed in black that draped over one shoulder, leaving her other arm completely bare save for a simple band of iron. The only other adornment was a long necklace beaded with turquoise from which hung a heavy pendant of engraved wood. It didn't look decorative. The equivalent of a signet ring, maybe? Whatever it was, like the Arishok's sword and Taarbas' sash, it was probably her _asala_.

It took her more effort to find her voice than it should have. "I just...expected something a bit more ostentatious, Arigena," she replied nervously. There had been a small part of her mind that had never actually expected to be standing in front of one of the Triumvirate so soon—or so easily—despite her closeness to the Arishok after all her dealings with him.

The Arigena laughed, not loudly, but it was a musical sound, full and feminine. "You have not been among us long, have you, Ben-Hassrath? Your rank would suggest to me otherwise." She turned her pale golden eyes to Asari. "Who is this female you have brought me, _tamassran_?"

"She is the Arishok's soul keeper, Arigena. The refugees from Kont-Aar thought her worthy of the role of _ben-hassrath_ after what she did for us. She is...new to the Qun but very promising."

"Soul keeper?"

"The _basra_ know me as Serah Hawke," Marian spoke up, finding her courage buried somewhere in the frustration of people talking about her while she was present. "The Arishok challenged me to a _tal-shok_ to fulfill his duty as regarded the Tome. It would do him honor to know that I cleansed the city of Kirkwall with it as he had intended." She quickly snapped her mouth shut and mashed her lips between her teeth. The memory was fresher than she thought, and she didn't at all want to get emotional in front of the Arigena. She had long ago ceased mourning the loss of the Arishok...but Kirkwall? That pustule still seeped vile ichor somewhere deep in her soul.

"I see." The Arigena smoothly drew a fresh sheet of parchment in front of her and reached for a stylus. As she wrote, she did not look up at them again even when she spoke. "Our people have been fascinated by you, Serah Hawke. Forgive me if I address you as that. Convert or otherwise, nothing is final until the Ariqun has seen you." When she was finished, she rolled the parchment and tied it quickly with a green cord. "You told the _ashlok_ something about Kont-Aar. Mass deaths? A ship leaving the blockade just to bring you here?"

Asari and Marian both leaped right into the story, trading off as if they had rehearsed the whole thing from beginning to end. It was not the "good parts version." It was the "blatantly honest including all the gory details version," and the Arigena's demeanor quickly shifted from easy to tense to alarmed as the tale progressed. Qunari forced to rely on the hospitality of _basra_. Darkspawn littering the wilds. That same corruption wiping away tens of thousands of lives from the smallest child to the strongest warrior.

"How does something like this happen?" the Arigena breathed when they finished, her eyes fixed on the baby in Asari's arms.

"I'd like to know how the Triumvirate remained ignorant," Marian stiffly replied. "Well...two out of three, at least. Aqunaran said they had received word from the Arishok to hold and do nothing."

The Arigena's eyes narrowed, and Marian noticed that a breath caught in Asari's throat. This was it, she told herself. This was the point where her mouth finally took her a step too far. She steeled herself to be ready to come up with a very quick and exceptionally diplomatic response. Why did they have to leave Fenris outside?

"I would like to know that as well."

It took Marian longer than it should have to realize that the Arigena was not referring to her internal monologue. The wizened woman stood, the note she had just written firmly in her grip as she walked around the desk. Marian had been correct. The kossith was no taller than she was but that made her no less imposing. She smelled lightly of a sandalwood musk, and it reminded the Champion of that particular incense burned in holy shrines and Chantries.

The woman took Marian's hand and put the roll of paper into it. "Take this and give it to the Ariqun at once. I would go with you, but there are things I must do here that affect the duties of many. I can understand if you do not agree, Serah Hawke," she said as Marian opened her mouth to retort, "but my purpose is clear and abilities limited. Besides, I am a poor hand at politics."

"You are the Arigena."

"That merely means I listen to craftsmen bicker and monitor the harvests. Three years ago, I would have known better what to do, but that is neither here nor there." She closed Marian's fingers around the note and held the human's pale hand in both of hers. "You are known here as _basalit-an_ , and that should carry enough weight."

"And what of my companions?" Marian gestured back behind them to where Fenris, Isabela, and Varric hopefully remained unaccosted on the balcony of the great hall. "They are not Qunari, but I will not abandon them after they've stood by me this long."

The Arigena nodded and went back around behind her desk. After digging about in a drawer, she drew forth a handful of red ribbons embroidered with the now familiar basketweave pattern. "I use these to mark my official correspondence. Have them wrap their wrists to evidence that I gave them permission to journey inland. We have...very few precedents of voluntary visitors here."

"So I've heard," the Champion replied as she took only the number of ribbons that she needed. " _Panahedan,_ Arigena. And thank you."

The others had not moved from the bench along the balcony. Save Varric. He appeared to be keenly interested in the goings on far below. His eyes darted back and forth from vendor to vendor, watching how transactions actually worked, trying to find out what the economy was based on, which merchants carried the most clout...if they even were merchants. Based on their haggling skills, they were just farmers that didn't know a good deal when it was punching them in the face.

Marian went around and handed them each a ribbon with the brief instructions. She didn't answer any questions about how the talk went. She didn't say what sort of person the Arigena was. Even Asari remained aloof regarding the matter. By the time they were out of the market hall, Varric had nagged a bit too much.

"You are not Qunari," Marian said simply. "And, if I told you, it would probably go in your next serial— _Caught in Qunandar_ or some such nonsense. It would get you killed."

"Aw, Hawke...see, now all you've done is sparked my curiosity all the more. And it's a real shame you don't have more of a sense of humor. There are times when I like how you think." And he surreptitiously jotted something down in his little notebook as they made their way back out of the vertical village and onto the soft expanse of grassy soil.

Asari made them walk some more. A lot more. A full league brought them to another village surrounded by farmland, and Varric insisted that they really needed to stop and rest...and eat...or something sensible like that.

"Don't you believe in horses around here? Or ponies. Or, flames, even a domesticated bronco would be better than walking another step." The dwarf plopped himself down on the ground and tugged off his boots.

"We have no horses," Asari responded, halting them all but not sitting herself. "It has been tried, but they don't handle this climate well. Or full-grown kossith trying to ride them."

"So you walk absolutely everywhere."

"It's good for the soul."

"Even long distances?"

"It keeps one humble."

"And how humble is this journey to wherever it is we're headed going to keep us?"

Asari smiled her sweetest smile. In fact, it actually appeared to be genuine, as if she found Varric amusing as much as she didn't want to upset him.

"Profoundly," was all she said before she turned and began walking again.

They were not alone amidst the foot traffic. Many Qunari traversed in both directions, numbers growing thicker the further they went. Some pulled carts behind them, but it was otherwise exactly as Asari said. No horses. No ponies, no donkeys, no proper beasts of burden of any sort. The creative had put _dathrasi_ , those hairy, wild-looking boar, to use pulling smaller carts or carrying lighter loads. However, that did not change the fact that a pair of feet and expertly shod shoes were the best tools available to any individual on this tropical island.

When the sky began to darken, even Marian wondered how much longer they had yet to go. Aqunaran had resupplied them with rations, but it didn't help with the need for shelter when they truly did need to stop and rest. She moved up close to the kossith woman to put forth her questions.

They were going to the Ariqun, of course. That was the only action they could take. That meant trekking all the way to Qunandar on the far northeast of the island. It would take them three days at the very least on foot.

"But that's our only option!" Marian exclaimed in a hushed whisper. "What Qunari is going to put up _basra_ for the night—with or without the Arigena's seal?"

"It is not the only option for heroes," Asari returned lowly.

"I don't understand."

"Do you know what the Arigena gave you?"

"A letter for the Ariqun."

Asari shook her head. "You are to ultimately give it to the Ariqun, yes, but it is a writ of commendation."

"A what?"

The kossith reached over and pulled it out of Marian's satchel, holding it up in the dimming light for her companion to see. "Color is very important in our culture, as I'm sure you've noticed. It designates things, categorizes them. This green ribbon means the bearer is worthy of a crown of laurel, and if any doubts that, you also have Sataareth to back it up. It gives us access to the _atashok_."

"The what?"

Asari said nothing else, just chuckled to herself and shook her head some more. She passed the rolled document back to Marian who tucked it back into her satchel. It was an anxious silence that followed, the Champion looking about her in earnest as she tried to figure out where they were and what, if anything, they had to look forward to.

They were an an upward slope, wherever they were. The stars began to appear in the twilight sky, the road marked at intervals with brightly burning sconces. The road had forked sometime back and fewer people walked here. Those they did see were higher ranking of the various paths available to Qunari, but Marian would have never known the difference had Asari not insisted on greeting each and every one of them by title. So many _sten_ , so many _ashkaari_ , so many other things that the Champion wasn't entirely sure what they were.

The higher they climbed, the more prevalent a strange odor became. No one could quite place it with all the clashing scents from the multitude of flora, but it couldn't be said it was pleasant. After a while, the trees thinned a little, and it became more evident that they were cresting one of the higher foothills that circled the mountains at the island's heart. The road terminated at a great, paved platform rimmed with a low wall. Further to the north was a cave entrance that had been carved to look more like proper construction than a naturally occurring structure. Unlike the cliffside village, the carvings held no evidence of the previous culture that had inhabited Par Vollen centuries before. Marian was no art connoisseur, but she didn't like what she saw.

The smell originated here. At least this is where it was the most potent, and the cooler air wafting from the cave entrance carried it in abundance. A few warriors maintained post about the perimeter, but Marian didn't exactly know why. Not immediately, anyway.

As they crossed the platform toward the cave's entrance, a shadow blotted out the moon. They halted and looked up, but it was the shriek that gave it away more than the shape. Fenris' markings immediately ignited to life. Varric snapped Bianca into readiness. Isabela pulled out Vice and Villainy. Marian shoved Asari to the ground as Basrath-Kata sang from the sheath upon her back. The kossith woman protested, but Marian would hear none of it.

Dragons.

Ever since the Bone Pit, she truly despised dragons.


	42. Atashi!

The creature swooped down upon them, claws extended, jaws open wide. It screamed with such ferocity, Marian felt the vibrations in her chest and sharp pains in her ears. It took every fiber of her being to not drop her sword to clamp her hands to her head, and the resulting vertigo nearly toppled her from her feet. Isabela was several paces away, her forearms pressed to her ears as she tried to visibly make herself scarce. Fenris had shaken off the effects and was violently slashing upwards with his blade.

But the dragon had kept itself just out of reach.

Deftly, it landed on all fours at the entrance to the cave, turning around to face the companions and letting loose one last irritated shriek before it folded its wings. The Qunari soldiers stationed nearby moved in to assist the creature with a load it apparently carried.

"Maker's breath," Marian cursed, looking from the dragon down to Asari. "You _can't_ be serious."

An aged male _ashkaari_ was assisted down from where he had been sitting in a large and awkward-looking saddle strapped to the mature dragon's back. His white hair was long and his horns corkscrews of black slate. He hobbled away and down the sloping path without incident, Marian and the others watching after him in sheer curiosity.

"I was trying to tell you," Asari grumbled as she climbed back to her feet, adjusting the blanket that held Talan before she even thought to see to her rumpled robes. " _Atashi_ are used as transports. Some of them, anyway. Those too unruly are given to the _antaam_ for training...which is most of them."

Marian raised an eyebrow. "You have dragons in the army?"

"Of course not! But they present an excellent challenge for even the most seasoned warrior." She finally brushed the road dust from her knees. When she was finished, she gestured forward to where the dragon had settled down and was ready for its next passengers. "Shall we?"

"Oh no," Isabela immediately objected, keeping at least one of her daggers at the ready. "You don't expect me to go anywhere near that thing let alone _on_ it...do you?"

"I'm with the Rivaini," Varric piped up. "I've yet to meet a dragon that didn't want to kill me. And eat me. I hear dwarves are crunchy and taste good with a healthy dash of spite."

"And, here, I thought I was traveling with _basalit-an_ ," Asari sighed with feigned disappointment. "You told me yourself, _kadan_ , that the lot of you have fought a hundred dragons and obviously lived to tell about it. The thought of riding one frightens you?"

"Dragon slaying is one thing, Goldie. Dragon trusting is a whole different matter."

Marian could hardly get over the smell. She'd forgotten the eye-watering sulfur and ammonia, the reptilian odor of warm guano and dry, flaking scales and half-rotted carrion. The creature hunched there, staring at them, the Qunari warriors also looking over with curious, waiting stares. Only Asari approached them.

"You wish transport, _tamassran_?" one of them asked her, his voice taking on a metallic ring as it filtered through his helm.

"Yes, to Qunandar. These _basalit-an_ will accompany me. They have been granted permission to journey inland by the Arigena herself."

The soldier nodded. "We must rouse a second _atashi_ for all of you."

He quickly gestured to one of his fellows who nodded stiffly in turn and descended into the cave behind them. He then started spouting out a set of instructions for the whole procedure, that a guide would ride with them due to their lack of experience, that the group would have to be split to not overburden the dragons. No loud noises. No sudden moves. Avoidance of certain terms to avoid confusing the mounts. He then requested the writ of passage that even gave them permission for such a prestigious mode of travel. Asari had Marian show him the rolled letter from the Arigena. The green cord was all he needed to see.

When the second dragon was brought forth, walking tethered and docile behind the Qunari warrior, Marian and the others could only stare...and gulp. It was larger in all possible dimensions, the multitude of horns branching back behind its skull long and sharp and ribbed like serrated blades. Its skin was a dusky green in contrast to the almost-dark-violet of the first, and its eyes were a piercing yellow that didn't just look through you but shredded the very core of your being in the process.

And they were expected to sit that thing like a horse?

There was ultimately no choice. Not with the rush they were in, not with the import of their task at hand. This was no longer a matter of Marian simply coming here to officially join the Qunari. They all bore a duty to Kont-Aar that wasn't just a Qunari interest. It involved darkspawn. Scores of darkspawn. Enough darkspawn to lay waste to _tens of thousands of Qunari_ who were renowned for their war machine if nothing else. It was difficult for even the Champion to digest despite what she'd seen in Lothering, what she'd heard from other survivors of the Blight. She'd watched Fenris take a beating from Taarbas every morning in their drills. And Taarbas had been deemed "unfit" to serve in the _antaam_. Forget their philosophy, their martial skill is really why Qunari were feared.

Yet they could still be decimated by darkspawn like anyone else. That needed to end before it spread and turned into another Blight while the world was still reeling fresh from the last one.

The Kirkwallers talked it over to figure out who rode with whom, Marian staying with Asari and Varric, Isabela and Fenris agreeing to trust the Qunari handler and his dragon on their own. It was like pulling teeth. The pirate had flat-out refused to ride unless the elf or Marian was with her, and Varric practically clung to Asari like a lost child.

They climbed the leather strapping to get aboard, two seats on either side of the bony ridge of the spine. Their feet could rest unevenly on the creature's back or neck while there was a space given for the wings to rise and fall between passengers. There were belts to hold them all in place, and Marian tightened hers as much as she could stand. She wasn't exactly certain how she fared with heights, but the concept of being hundreds of feet above the ground and her life entrusted to a dragon of all things absolutely _terrified_ her.

A few minutes more, and they were off, the dragons making a running charge for the edge of the paved platform and leaping high. Their leathery wings spread to catch the wind and glide downward before actually beating to maintain altitude. Marian realized she was holding her breath the moment her lungs screamed in pain. Beside her and a few feet away, Varric was cursing profusely in languages that he probably didn't even understand. He cursed further when the dragon arched back to rise higher, nearly reaching the cloudline, and there was nothing behind for any of the passengers to lean against. That time, however, his vocabulary was distinctly very colorful Trade Tongue and involved a lot of, "It's fine, Bianca! We'll be bloody fine!"

Marian suddenly heard a strange whooping sound off to her right as the second dragon flew up to meet them. Isabela, one of those most staunchly against this from the beginning, had her hands raised high in the air, fists pumping before she extended her arms straight out. She was seated up front next to their handler, and when her head tilted back, Marian could see the euphoric smile plastered on the dark-skinned woman's face, teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Afraid of tight spaces and the underground but awash with freedom in the open sky and sea. The Champion learned more and more about her dearest friend every day.

They flew for hours. Exhaustion was an overwhelming force but none of them felt comfortable succumbing to it. What if the belts came loose? What if they fell over backward (or forward) and the dragon did something dodgy? What if, what if, what if. Marian could see Varric nodding off but startling himself back to wakefulness. Asari still seemed like nothing fazed her and was once again tending to the child in her charge. Marian felt the tell-tale wooly sensation in her throat, the dryness in her eyes, and she constantly swallowed back yawns like it would help. The beat of the wings was so rhythmic...so steady...the hum of the wind was soothing, the air warm against her skin...

She awoke when they landed, her left arm completely numb from where she'd been laying on it, the limb compressed between her jaw and the dragon's back. The side of her seat had dug into her ribs, but she didn't feel the pain there until she actually lifted herself up and blood rushed back in to the deprived muscles. The pins-and-needles sensation that came after from her shoulder through her fingers made her wonder if she was supposed to laugh with the tingle or cry with the ache.

They were on a large platform of a light gray stone surrounded by domed turrets. Everything was carved in clean lines with grooves and spirals or a simple ribbed design. There were more columns than actual walls, and in the distance, Marian could see a cluster of pyramids not unlike the one in Kont-Aar against the horizon. After she got down from her seat, she headed across the platform to get a better look at things. The short walk also helped to stretch her legs. As she got to the carved stone railing, she was left positively breathless by the view before her. Thousands of buildings covered the ground and rolling hills. The streets were laid out in strict grid patterns, but that didn't seem to interrupt the organic flow of things. The architecture was oddly cosmopolitan for such a structured society, but Marian remembered what Asari and Fenris had mentioned earlier. _Rebuild what you conquer._ Much of what lay before her could have easily existed or been redesigned from what the indigenous population left behind, other things added and expanded upon both from the Qunari's extant culture and anything useful they found from others.

Once everyone had dismounted, the dragons were led away to a large stable-like structure that was built around the far curve of the platform, at least half a dozen other mature dragons already inside either railing to be fed (scraps, she hoped, or hunks of butchered _dathrasi_ ) or still comfortably nesting in beds made of mud and straw and furs. As Marian watched, curious and enthralled, the strangest memory popped into her head.

Mountain sugar.

The ammonia-sulfur stink was here, too, as it had been at the cave, but it was more diffuse. It could have been due to how high up they were, the platform built on the top of a massive building—like a palace, if such a thing existed here. The wind was stronger and not blocked by trees or other geographical formations. But there were laborers at work at dung heaps on the other side of a low wall. They were shoveling, sorting, and Marian felt the impulse to walk over and see what they were doing. It was a new city, and it wasn't Kirkwall. She needed to start getting her bearings somewhere. Why not a dung heap?

The actual dragon dung was being shoveled into wide barrows and wheeled down a spiraling path that ringed the building, the waste taken away as quickly as possible. Other laborers were on their hands and knees, digging through the muck for other bits. Apparently, anything regurgitated was kept as well...and the Champion had to try really hard to not add to the pile herself. Bones, mostly, were pulled and set aside, but there were other things, strange things, things that people had lost or stones that had taken on a smooth and polished quality.

"Dragons can't digest most things on their own." Asari's voice was soft at her shoulder, and Marian looked over quickly before returning her attention to the laborers. It was a morbid curiosity, she had to admit, but it was curiosity nonetheless. "They swallow stones to aid the process, and we keep those along with any bones or whatever else. Some things weren't meant to be swallowed. Many times, we find _asala_ in with the mess, embarrassed Qunari knocking on the _viddathlok_ doors to try to get them back. Most of the time, though, we find the standard medicinal reagents. Bone marrow, the bile infused stones-"

"Mountain sugar," Marian finished, finally seeing what she had been hoping to. One of the laborers had dug up the surprisingly beautiful yellow crystals and was cleaning them gently with her delicate elven fingers before laying them in a cloth-lined bronze bowl. It was truly hard to believe by actually looking at them the particular revolting process by which they were formed.

"Indeed. We're still learning much about it, but one thing we do know—apart from the color changing—is that it makes extremely potent explosives." She suddenly looked down at her hands, her expression sheepish. "I...didn't want to tell Varric."

Marian couldn't hide the grin. "Why not?"

"Well...because I still have two grenades left in my pack, and I knew he would want one." Talan began to squirm and mewl from within her snug confines, Asari quickly raising her hands to cradle the infant while shushing her gently. "But we must be off. This little one needs more expert attention than what I have been able to give."

"And what Qunari knows more about the blight sickness than you? Wasn't that the whole point of your studies?"

"It was the point, but I have not been able to make potent enough medicines. I think you were right in your suggestion of the _nevaa_ being added—that lyrium of yours—but if I'm to get any further, I must seek out an _ashkaari_ expert in the ways of _saarebas_. Besides that, we need to get you to the Ariqun. Either way," she turned slightly to look out over the city blanketing the earth beyond, "we need to get to the _viddathlok_. There will be no ogres this time. I promise."


	43. Raider and Retriever

The morning sun saw them round the bend in the peninsula that brought them on a direct heading to the port. The docks at Seere were bustling even more than they had been when the _Hawke's Flight_ had initially made berth, and Taarbas was grateful to see that the Orlesian ship still rested at anchor. She had new paint, the name reworked in the script that was the bastard child of Rivaini and Qunari. Such was the product of a nation that had never truly wanted the Exalted March to liberate them.

"You know, literally, that translates to _Wings of the Falcon_ ," Taarbas said with a wry grin as he looked down to scratch Swoop behind the ears. "I won't breathe a word to her if you don't."

Over the past few days, he had taken to having conversations with the dog. Not because the sailors, his fellow Qunari that he'd been separated from for so long, were rude or simple or anything of the sort. On the contrary, he'd had a wonderful time tasting life on Par Vollen again, however vicariously. It was just that Swoop seemed to understand him in the same way Marian could, implicitly, wordlessly, despite cultural barriers or differences in species aside. He was also _her_ dog, her loyal companion and hound through the best and worst events in her life. He had watched this creature fight in defense of his mistress and her friends, and he admitted that the day Swoop had warmed up to him, had sought him out for attention or affection, had made Taarbas feel as if he'd been bestowed one of the greatest honors any individual could achieve.

As the skiff closed the distance to the pier, Taarbas' brow darkened. Almost in the same instant, Swoop vibrated with a low, guttural growl. The Qunari held out a hand to his fellows, and one of the sailors came to the prow to meet him. Taarbas pointed out particular flags blowing in the breeze atop some of the ships. When he'd left, there were only Qunari vessels that didn't otherwise belong. This time, the Qunari ships remained, but they were joined by a couple of foreign make, ships that sported the black bloodflags of the Raiders.

"We tread carefully," he said, more lowly than he really needed to, but he didn't want to alarm the others. No soldiers had been sent with them, and Taarbas came to the heavy realization that he was probably the only one with any skill with a proper weapon. "Draw up next to the tri-master with the wide hull. That's our destination. If the same crew is there, we can sail her out."

"Will the _basra_ on board trust us, Taarbas?"

"They had better," was the reply. "If not, the mabari can make them see reason."

It was a good twenty minutes before they drew up alongside the _Hawke's Flight_ , Taarbas waving down the crew and holding Marian's shield aloft to help identify them as friends. Fortunately, he saw faces he recognized. Isabela had chosen her crew well. Even after nearly two weeks without a captain or officers, the elves and humans had remained loyal.

He was the first to climb aboard with a hammock being lowered to raise Swoop. The other Qunari followed, blinking, wide-eyed, at the mix of _basra_ that actually seemed to be happy to see them. Or at least happy to see Taarbas and the mabari no matter who he had in tow.

"Where is the captain?" one of the humans asked, all bushy black hair and ice-blue eyes. Taarbas remembered him as one of the hands hired in Kirkwall. Warren, his name was...or something of that sort. The Qunari had learned early on that calling them by their titles was pointless and resulted in chaos. "Sailor" seemed to apply to everyone, and _basra_ hadn't the skill to better understand their assigned purposes.

"She is safe. As are the others. Kont-Aar has been laid waste, and we were forced to retreat to the sea." He let his gaze stray to the stone facade of Seere as the sun gleamed off the dark stones. "I was sent with these Qunari sailors to ensure this ship reaches Par Vollen. I have cargo on board that is beyond precious."

"Your crates," Warren replied with a sage nod. He seemed to be the man of rank aboard with everyone else absent. "They are still safely stowed...but I don't know for how much longer if we can't get out of here in one piece." He motioned for Taarbas to follow him as he walked across the deck, pointing at first to the Raider ship and then to a crowd deeper inland about where the market square was located. "Company joined us from Llomerryn not two nights past. We were questioned and still seem to be of interest." He looked Taarbas up and down, stopping at his violet eyes before blinking to the shield once more strapped to his back. "They're looking for the Lady Hawke."

Taarbas immediately tensed, his jaw clenching and his hands balling into fists. That _basra vashedan_ Prince of hers was relentless and stupid. If he wanted his woman so badly, he should have come after her himself—as a man—instead of spreading a summons to the four winds that only attracted the lowest of ilk. But the woman did not want to be his, did not want to be caught, and she had made that point abundantly clear when she slew a score of her own right here in this very town when the order for her capture was so much as breathed. A smile warmed his face at the memory.

"How are they treating the locals?" he asked.

"Poorly. They are refusing to admit they've even seen her. Or you. Or anyone out of Kirkwall. Since then, they've settled for pillaging. The, uh..." he glanced about him nervously, seeming to count the number of kossith that surrounded him. "The Qunari soldiers posted here have done nothing. They say it's none of their affair."

"They would," Taarbas replied with a shrug. "Because it isn't. Not yet."

He requested that the gangplank be lowered so that he and Swoop could venture into town. The Qunari sailors that had come with him objected, saying that what he needed was right here, that they were on their mode of transport, that all they needed to do was leave. He regarded them all with a steady gaze, his bearing tall and straight, his shoulders squared. He did not outrank them, but they were here on his behalf, sent to follow his instruction as per Aqunaran.

"There is a woman in this village to whom I owe a debt. And, now, I learn that I also owe the entire village a debt for what they have done to protect both Ben-Hassrath and Asari. The _karataam_ might not deign to involve itself...but I must."

Warren looked on, befuddled at the Qunari language being thrown about so easily. He'd picked up bits and pieces from Taarbas' earlier presence aboard, but it wasn't enough to fully understand what he'd just said. He knew the tone, though. Stoic. Determined. Damned foolhardy. Something was going to happen. Something messy. And he really hoped he wouldn't have to deliver any bad news to Isabela later—if any of them got out of here alive.

* * *

Taarbas and Swoop moved as silently as they could through the back alleys and abandoned parts of the ruined city. The Raiders had kept to the town square, huddled around makeshift tables and crowded into the only tavern, carousing and drinking and eating the place bare. Women screamed and cried nearby as they were mercilessly raped, but the Qunari couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. It was not his business. Not yet.

The mabari had his nose to the ground, following that scent of embrium and ozone, elfroot and lyrium dust. He knew where they were going. It was the only place they could go to find a proper ally in all this sprawl of granite. It was where he remembered last having a decent meal. The Qunari's hand was often gripping his collar, holding him back if the excitement of the moment started to carry him away. He'd whine and almost choke himself with the strain, but he understood. They were outnumbered. They could be easily ambushed. He was much like his mistress: skilled in the charge and bloody slaughter but pitiful at stealth.

It took a lot longer to get there than it had even the first time since they had to skirt so far around. But Taarbas was more than a little relieved to see smoke waft out the chimney, sparks of something beautiful and dangerous flash through the curtained windows. She had closed the house up, but he could still hear her dry and weary voice chanting something in hushed tones. Any other time, he would have had his weapon ready, waiting to surprise the fiend and skewer her on his spear point. But this was Adda Saarebas. She had resurrected his very soul.

He knocked politely on the door. Swoop sat beside him, panting with what looked like a grin, his stub of a tail beating furiously against the dust of the sandy ground.

The chanting stopped abruptly, and it was only seconds before the crude wooden door creaked open a bit, just a crack, just a sliver of darkness that allowed in just enough light to catch and reflect in the brilliant golden eye of the hedge witch. When she saw who stood there, she sucked in a breath and opened the door wider.

"What on earth are you doing here?" she whispered harshly, looking about to see if anyone else was around. "Don't you know you're all wanted? Or, at least that lady friend of yours is wanted. And you with her shield on your back, oh my, oh my..." She continued to jabber quietly as she reached out and grabbed him by the meat of his arm, dragging him with a surprising strength into her tiny hovel. Swoop continued to pant happily as he obediently followed. The door closed behind them.

"Adda Saarebas," Taarbas began simply as he watched the old woman bustle about, "I've come to repay my debt to you."

"You owe me nothing, Qunari," she replied tersely, a concentrated look on her face as she gathered up various dried herbs to continue what he'd interrupted. "These Raiders will eventually leave like all the others. We don't have what they're looking for, nor is there any wealth they'd be interested in." She peered over her shoulder at him. "Well...at least we _didn't_ have anything they were looking for."

"Then I have inconvenienced you and must atone."

The woman sighed, her hands and what was in them to the wood of the table in the middle of the room. She regarded him with an even and keen stare. "I find that those who constantly feel that they owe someone something are merely in search of guidance and direction. And I thought Qunari only knew guidance and direction like it was their very life-blood." She rested her hands flat and leaned forward just a little. "Are you lost, Qunari?"

For a moment, Taarbas froze, his blood running cold under the look she gave him, the look that burrowed beneath his skin and picked at the inner workings of his mind with an intent curiosity that made even his horns tingle. He gritted his teeth, ground them together. His chest felt tight and breathing was suddenly difficult. When he found his voice again, it actually cracked.

"The Raiders are here on account of the one I brought to you. It is my duty to clear them from your home." He avoided her question, her eyes. He focused on her nose instead. It was straight and smooth despite her age, skin the same dusky mocha of Isabela's.

"So, the truth is, you came to ask still another favor of me and claim it as returning one?" Adda's smile was small but overfull with amusement.

"I...yes, Adda Saarebas."

She let loose that dry laugh of hers, her shoulders heaving with every breath. "You could have just said so, Qunari. Spirits know I was already planning something but had no one to assist _me_. That is, until you came. And so timely, too. One would think fate itself had decreed this moment should occur." She winked playfully, but Taarbas felt the weight behind what she said.

This was the second time he had consorted freely with a _saarebas_ , her corrupting voice flowing to his ears as smoothly as any other. Yet, he did not worry. He didn't see the need to ever tell his fellows what he was doing, what he had already done. It would have meant weeks—months—in the _viddathlok_ undergoing observation, being purified. If that was the way of things, it was already too late for him. He had spent three years in Kirkwall and its environs, surrounded by mages both accounted for by their Circle and on the run. If he was corrupted by their words, it had happened long ago.

Adda worked quickly, chanting and grinding and mixing and boiling and bottling. She filled several round containers of thin glass with a softly glowing liquid, green light swirling as the contents mixed and separated and mixed again. She asked for his weapon, and he obliged. With a steady hand, she coated the blade with a potent poison, the mixture gleaming on the steel with an oily sheen. She put the grenades carefully in the pouch at his waist and gave him simple instructions.

"I have been watching them...they keep to the square, as I'm sure you've seen. They are bullies, better with brags than brawn, but whoever the captain is chose his crew well. There are some Tal-Vashoth among them, trained warriors all. The captain is Orlesian and dresses like one. A scarf of purple and gold silk is tied about his neck." She ushered him to the door. "Those grenades are a choking gas. Use them only if you have to."

"Are the villagers necessary casualties?" he asked once on the other side of the threshold.

"No."

"Then I have my orders, Adda Saarebas." He bowed deeply to her with respect he hadn't realized he actually felt until that very moment. _Saarebas_. She was _saarebas_...

Adda smiled at him and nodded in return. "Do this, and your debt is repaid, Qunari. May you find your path again." And she closed the door to his retreating form, Swoop obediently following.

* * *

The market square was all abustle when he reached it. The villagers and refugees from Kont-Aar moved about as if the day were no different than normal, as if the Raiders weren't there preying upon their already-thin levels of patience. He caught sight of one group of the encroachers clustered about a table. Some were hunched over as if focused on something. Others stood around with tankards in their hands and foolish smiles on their rosy faces. Kossith and humans the whole lot of them...smugglers and Tal-Vashoth. More than once, he saw one of the kossith step aside to saunter up to any passing female, bend to her ear, touch her shoulder, her breast, her backside. More than once, he was slapped for it or yelled at or shied away from.

Taarbas recognized him.

Rothgar.

The Qunari looked down to his mabari companion. They had taken up a safe post around the corner of a building to wait for their moment. That moment was fast approaching.

"The dwarf's ruse wasn't good enough," he muttered to Swoop, rolling his shoulders to loosen them up a bit. "Think we can handle them all?"

Swoop looked up at him, still panting in the heat of the day, and chuffed. It was more of a sneeze, really, but it was accompanied by a nod. Taarbas smiled. Mabari were truly fearless.

"You gather up the women and children if you can. Get them out of the square...anywhere else will do. Think you can do that?"

The mabari made a noise deep in his throat that was like an audible rolling of the eyes.

"Good." And without another word, Taarbas stepped into the square and made a direct line for the table of _vashedan_ drunkards.

It did not take long for Rothgar to notice him. The kossith's face seemed to light up with a pleased expression, the hand clutching his mug of ale gesturing outward as he called over to his fellows.

"Here's a face I never expected to see! Armaas, you old sod, what brings you here? And how did you even arrive—I saw no other ship." He looked back toward the port as if confused. "And your dwarf friend, how is he? I could not scrape together the coin for his treasure hunt, much to my sorrow." His golden eyes took on a look of feigned sadness.

"You hardly seem disappointed."

Rothgar shrugged, and Taarbas took note of the serrated daggers belted to his waist. "News of a job just as rewarding blew through town not long ago. They say the Prince of Starkhaven is paying a king's ransom for the return of his betrothed. Kidnapped they say, but I think otherwise." He winked suggestively, "You and I both know the wily ways of women, eh?"

Taarbas tried and probably failed to flash a wicked grin. "That we do, my brother." He glanced about casually, acting as if he hadn't already seen the goings on in the square, taking note of where Swoop romped about, playing with the children as his means to lead them away. It was working surprisingly well. "Any leads?" he asked, his words directed at Rothgar.

The kossith shrugged again. "The trail goes cold here. The ship sailed north, they said. Whoever 'they' is. Captain knows, not me. Anyway." He took a swig of his drink, white froth clinging to his upper lip. "Someone in this town knows and just isn't telling. Captain's determined to find that someone. Ain't that right, Captain?"

"Just so."

The voice came from over Taarbas' shoulder. Even in those two words, he could hear the hopelessly thick Orlesian, and he jerked his head around quickly to take in the smaller-than-average form of the Raider captain Adda had told him about. Human but barely larger than a dwarf, he was not physically intimidating. But there was a gleam in his eye. A gleam Taarbas really did not like.

"Who is your friend, Rothgar? Do be kind enough to introduce us." The captain smiled politely at Taarbas even as he spoke, his words more dangerous than anything a _saarebas_ could ever utter.

"This is Armaas, Captain. Armaas, might I present the captain: Captain Fenrier du Lac. I hoped I pronounced that properly, sir," the drunken kossith muttered with a scowl.

"It was adequate, Rothgar." The Orlesian waved the concern away with a nonchalant and mockingly noble gesture. He returned his attention to Taarbas. "And where, friend Armaas, did you acquire that most fascinating shield? It cannot possibly be yours. Spearmen do not need such things. And what is this?" Fenrier stepped around behind him, his fingers tapping on the burnished metal like he were tinkering with a musical instrument. "Such a curious blazon. From Kirkwall, if I'm not mistaken. You can always tell by those harsh lines. Two eagles...just what we were told to look for."

Rothgar froze mid-sip. The table next to them grew quiet at their captain's sudden change in tone. He was not conversational. He was louder than necessary, insinuating, his voice slick as grease. They all turned to look. The whole dozen of them. Taarbas glanced around to each, slipping in a darting search for Swoop while he was at it. The square was clearer, the dog getting his belly scratched at the far end by amused children.

The captain came back around and narrowed his eyes up at Taarbas. "Where is she, dog? You have her shield. What have you done with her?"

"You sling that word at me like an insult," Taarbas returned, keeping his eyes locked on the small man before him. It was difficult to be intimidated by anyone that size that wasn't Varric. He let out a low and trilling whistle, almost amused when the smugglers looked at each other in confusion. "I don't think it means quite what you think it means."

He pulled his staff free from behind him, but Swoop was there before any of them could react in kind. The captain was pounced on from behind and knocked to the ground, mabari teeth tearing at the expensive silk of his scarf trying to get at his neck. Taarbas leaped at Rothgar with a shout in Qunari, loudly proclaiming death to all Tal-Vashoth.

The ensuing chaos was favorable but unexpected...and unpredictable. Taarbas had Rothgar locked in a duel, but the pirates around them were so drunk and so unsure of what was actually going on, they fought with each other. Objects of all sizes flew through the air. The shouting rose to a rumbling din that was felt as much as heard. Swoop's barks and howls were the only things Taarbas made a point to listen for, keeping his canine companion within range as much as possible. The mabari's muzzle was already smeared with blood, the captain's death fast and gruesome, and others soon fell prey to the warhound's ferocity.

Taarbas closely watched Rothgar's daggers as they whistled and flew through the air. He was quite adept with them, displaying possible training as _vashkata_ or _tallis_ but giving up such possible prestige for the weight of gold and softness of loose women. The Qunari was not one to take such skill lightly. Not even from a drunkard. Especially not one that fought with you out of greed but the veneer of friendship. He had been fooled by that once. Never again.

He spun in at his opponent with his staff out, bending at the knees to try to trip him. The drink made Rothgar disoriented, slow to react. He came crashing down but still managed to keep a grip on his weapons. Swiftly, Taarbas shifted his grip and brought his staff up and over, cracking the sturdy wood down on the prostrate kossith's windpipe. There was a crack, a gag, and Rothgar found himself completely unable to breathe. The daggers were released, and Taarbas made a mad dash to gather them up and stuffed into his own belt. Swoop made good for the rest, the Tal-Vashoth trying desperately to scream as the mabari clawed at his ribcage.

Taarbas quickly surveyed the square, taking in the positions of friend and foe alike. Having little patience or energy to deal with the remaining brigands himself, he dug out one of Adda's grenades and tossed it to the far side of the market, the glass shattering and a green smoke quickly snaking through the air. He recognized the odor when it finally reached him as he connected violently with a pirate long needing a bath. No. There was no way. _Saar-qamek_. Adda knew how to make it. And she made it well. Human and elves choked and collapsed in the smoke as it hovered around their bodies and into their lungs. Even those around Taarbas were quickly succumbing. Desperately, he looked over to where Swoop still lay upon Rothgar. The dog was still.

Panic clamping down hard upon his heart, Taarbas rushed over and picked the hound up, rolling him onto his shoulder. His spear in his other hand, he ran from the square, from the town. He ran as fast as he could with the awkward and limp bundle of mabari as he raced back to the ship. There was sufficient chaos. The Raiders that survived could not possibly hope to follow, and the _saar-qamek_ would erase the memories of those that survived its poison. At his approach, he watched as the sails of the _Hawke's Flight_ unfurled, sailors at the gangplank shouting for him to hurry. They had seen everything and knew an opportunity when they saw one.

Panting for breath, Taarbas bounded up the gangplank and dropped his spear to the deck. His concern was for Swoop and nothing else. His mind was cluttered with noise, none of it making sense. He felt the ship lurch beneath them, heard the clipped vocabulary of the sea, heard the echoing cries of Raiders dying from madness in the heart of Seere.

And still, he heard none of it.

Emotion squeezing on his throat, he gathered Swoop up in his arms and hugged the still-warm fur to his chest. He pressed his face into the wrinkled flesh between his ears, praying that mabari were not so weak as the other races, as _basra_ proper. He prayed that fate would be kind.

He prayed that Marian would forgive him if he were wrong.


	44. Ability in the Blood

Marian couldn't believe it. She'd been housed in the _viddathlok_ for a week and had yet to see the Ariqun. The letter from the Arigena had been taken from her by a scribe, another one of those _ashlok_ types, and hopefully delivered. She still didn't know what it said, but the longer she waited, the more she was burning to find out. On top of this, her companions were missing. She'd seen neither hide nor hair of Fenris, Isabela, or Varric since they'd each been assigned quarters, small but livable rooms sparsely furnished but comfortable. Asari had been in to visit her several times, but the female kossith wouldn't (or couldn't) tell her anything of the others.

She could, however, chatter on endlessly about the breakthroughs the Ashkaari had made with Talan. Marian even got dragged along once when something particularly profound was due to happen as her studies of the Blight while at Kont-Aar were about to achieve some sort of tangible state of being. The Champion allowed herself to be tugged by the hand through corridor after corridor and up one stairway after another, her eyes long accustomed to the white magnesium light that had seemed so alien at first.

Their journey culminated at a room that was wider than it was deep, lanterns glowing with white light lining the walls and hanging low over long tables of simple wood. There was an eye-burning stink to the place that was completely chemical in nature, and Marian was curious and yet not about the various bottles and jars full of liquids of varying colors and consistencies that sat all over. Some were bubbling, other steaming, one bottle even exuded a thick, pink smoke as the Qunari female working with it held it at arms length with a pair of thongs, her eyes protected by strange lenses of tinted glass. _Massera_ , Asari called the lenses. There was no direct translation to the Trade Tongue.

They walked over to a table where a male kossith of middling years was bent over a collection of glass tubes. Upon closer inspection, Marian realized that they were all the blood samples rescued from Asari's study in Kont-Aar. Her journal lay open nearby, and another couple of vials rested in a wooden stand off to the side. More blood, but there was less of it.

"You came at just the right time, Asari," the Ashkaari said in a mild tenor, his focus not moving away from the vials he held in his hands. "This one," he lifted the one in his right hand slightly higher, "is blood drawn from the child you brought us. The other is what you labeled as coming from _vashun_. This morning, I was worried that the two were far too similar. I'll show you." He set aside the darkspawn blood and picked up a vial that had come from one of the diseased Qunari. "The color in the infected sample that you drew shortly after contagion is lighter, healthier, more fluid. In comparison, the child is far progressed. At first, I feared there was naught we could do but wait and pray or terminate her...but the realization hit me that all is not lost."

There was a broad grin on his long and narrow face as he picked up the darkspawn vial again, his bright gaze suddenly moving between Asari and Marian as he addressed them both. "Disease is carried in the blood. And only _through_ the blood can it be cured. You've been feeding this child herbs and _nevaa_ , yes?"

Asari nodded sharply. "I have."

"Then, perhaps we can make the medicine all the more potent with just a few drops of this." He held the darkspawn vial forward, the red-black oily substance sloshing a little and coating the sides of the glass. Marian was half surprised it hadn't eaten its way through.

"You want to make her even more sick?" Marian asked in disbelief, her tone hard as ever. "She's just an infant!"

"Exactly!" the Ashkaari responded enthusiastically. "She might be young and soft, but her body is hardier than you give her credit for. She is at the stage where every disease in the world will try to kill her. And this is our opportune moment. Come see. I've already been working up a sample." He turned back to his table and began to move things out of the way, bringing that collection of tiny vials to the fore.

Marian got a better look at them, then. The vials were barely the length of her finger and as thin as a stylus, but they were full of an almost black and glittering liquid. Ashkaari was rattling off to Asari the measurements of different reagents that he'd used, which reagents he'd found to be particularly potent from his own studies into the matter and enhancing with her notes, the dosage of lyrium that would be most appropriate for the size of the infant, and so on. Being a warrior by nature, Marian had about as much interest in the subject as she did in nug wrangling...which was to say, it was most curious but she could find better ways to spend her time. She was glad that Talan was in good hands and that there was a promising treatment if not a cure for her. After all, the Grey Wardens managed somehow to live for decades with the taint flowing through them. The Qunari could surely think of something given the time and resources.

She found herself cut out of the conversation quickly, Qunari words flying about that she'd yet to get a proper grasp of and uttered so quickly it sounded a little like Merrill when she prattled on in elvhen in her sleep. Figuring that she wouldn't be missed, Marian backed away and left the room. She let her feet take her wherever they would, knowing that she couldn't find her way back to her quarters no matter how hard she thought about it.

After several twists and turns and more than a few stairs, she spotted daylight and practically ran to it. She emerged onto a sort of balcony that overlooked the city center, a broad causeway that was lined on either side by tall pillars and arches yet open above the tiled road itself. Tables were lined up on either side five deep and accompanied by enough benches to seat hundreds of bodies. Qunari ate communally, usually outdoors, but this set-up was new. Folk had already taken up residence, sharing bread and drink between them as they talked and laughed and enjoyed the warm sun and light breeze. She couldn't really tell what was going on from so high up, but, as she watched, more and more flocked to the area to find seating or spread woven blankets upon the ground. Most were armed with bunches of flowers...white and red ones, and garlands of green leaves.

She passed a full half-hour watching the people, leaning on her arms upon the warm stone of the railing. She was in the white shift of a _viddathari_ with no colored sash. Asari promised her that it was only until the Ariqun spoke with her. The _tamassran_ was more than certain her rank as Ben-Hassrath would be restored, but it had to undergo official sanction. But the Ariqun had not summoned her. Marian could not entirely say that she truly minded. Yes, she was annoyed that their schedule was virtually halted. Yes, she was frustrated that she was separated from the friends that, over the years, had filled the void left by the family she lost. But the white reflected away the heat of the day yet still let her enjoy the sun on her skin. She had let her hair down, was once again in bare feet, and her only other adornment was an armband of bronze.

There was a low peal in the distance. A muted hornlike sound that resonated and echoed off the buildings of granite and marble and stucco. In the far distance, if she squinted, Marian could make out a moving, glittering mass approaching from the direction of the docks to the southeast. The plaza below her grew quiet as all turned their heads, some straining to try to see just as she was. After a few minutes, the horns sounded again, and the silence below shifted to a dull murmur. Others were now joining her on the balcony, all races and ranks, as the horns grew louder and a rhythmic beat could be heard. That beat familiar to any warrior as the sound of thousands of marching feet.

Chatter reached her ears. The _antaam_ , the _antaam_ was returning! This was the Arishok's victory march, his procession earned by cessation of hostilities in Seheron. He had beaten back the Tevinter magisters, sent them cowering back to their cesspit of a nation, and such a glory as this was his by right.

The word _arishok_ caused Marian's interest to pique. She rose on her elbows, squinting even harder against the potent sunlight as she watched for the advancing Qunari horde. It was several minutes and hundreds of racing heartbeats later when the first lines began to make their way into view on the grand causeway. Below, Marian caught sight of several robed individuals step out onto a landing of the _viddathlok_ 's steps, the foremost a female kossith of advanced years and elegantly banded horns. She wore a long and sleeveless gown of a deep violet, her waist cinched by a girdle of black leather and banded by a belt of braided golden cording that hung long to nearly her ankles. Ribbons of crimson were wound about her toned arms and plaited into the thick platinum of her hair.

The Ariqun.

Even from this distance, the intensity of her very presence was enough to lock the breath in one's chest. This was without being able to see the severe expression on her golden-skinned face or the fire in her amber eyes.

The crowd began to rise and cheer loudly as the procession moved forward, the Arishok himself coming into view just behind the forward ranks of _karasten_. He was on foot like all the others, and the only way to properly distinguish him was by his armor, the crimson of his pauldrons where all others wore black, the bronze bands decorating his horns where all others bore none. Marian's eyebrows knitted together over her nose, her mouth frowning. Compared to the man she dueled and killed, this Arishok was less imposing, smaller, perhaps younger. His horns lacked the length and curl. His shoulders were missing that breadth that bespoke a powerful warrior. He was more wiry than muscular, but she had to remember that it made him no less capable. Surely, he was Arishok for a _reason_ , and it was not her place to cast judgment.

"Here you are!"

Asari's voice caught her unawares. Startled, Marian turned to see her friend pushing through the crowd to get to her, her face flushed with exertion and glowing with joy. "Ashkaari and I are confident the treatment should help...if nothing else. We ran some tests on the other samples of infected blood and—" She broke off, looking wide-eyed into the plaza below. "When did this happen?"

"Um...just now? And for the past hour, at least, if I'm correct."

"I don't recall hearing about it."

Marian waved to the people down below and around them. "There must have been some sort of proclamation. Maybe you were too engrossed in your studies?"

Asari's brow darkened but she managed to nod. "Maybe." She stepped up to the railing next to Marian and rested her hands upon it, hands the same golden hue as the Ariqun. The Champion could see her watching the events unfold below, her eyes darting about, serious, discerning.

"Is something wrong?" Marian asked eventually, leaning closer to her friend just in case the conversation was unfit to truly have in public.

"I'm not sure," Asari murmured in return. She mashed at her lips as she continued to watch, her eyes fixed on the returning hero and his entourage of thousands of Qunari soldiers. "He is back from Seheron?"

"So I hear."

"With all his men?"

"How many men did he go there with?"

Asari didn't answer her, merely continued to look down. And her eyes were on the Arishok and him alone.

Curious, Marian returned her gaze there as well, trying to figure out what had made the other woman go from bubbly and excited to stone-cold serious. The Arishok had reached the foot of the _viddathlok_ , now, his long legs carrying him up the stairs to a point five or so steps below the Ariqun, where he knelt as best he could. His brow touched the back of the hand braced on his knee. The Ariqun announced something to the people, her words carried away from Marian's ears by the height and the wind, but she saw the tall kossith woman hold a crown of green leaves aloft before settling it regally upon the Arishok's horned head.

"He is being granted the highest of honors," Asari narrated absently, seeming like she knew Marian needed to be filled in on everything yet not being entirely there herself mentally. "To be crowned with laurels grants the chosen Qunari the status equivalent to a _basra_ king or emperor for the duration of the Festival of Tides. He is due all respect, all affection from his countrymen, immunity from all slander, and the freedom of choice should the situation arise."

Marian raised an inquiring eyebrow. "You mean he can have a new rank if he wants? Say...trying out life as a potter?"

Asari shook her head. "The point in a Festival of Tides is to repopulate after a long period of war. A hero does not have to abide by the particular selections made for him by the _tamassrans_. It can cause complications in the long run, but we do not deny tradition."

The human woman's eyebrow remained raised. "I'm not seeing how this is a problem," she stated simply. "You talk as if this parade is the worst thing to happen since Kont-Aar."

And now that hard golden gaze was on her, the kossith woman's stare tearing into her with a strange, angry heat. "The parade is not the problem." She jerked her head in the direction of the Arishok below without taking her gaze away from Marian's. "I just feel that...the heroism is premature. Kont-Aar lies in waste, and he _knows_ about it. We sent messengers!" Her attention shot back to the scene below. "And instead of taking his glorious _antaam_ straight there to deal the deaths those _vashun_ deserve...he comes here to be crowned with laurels and shield himself from the truth with politics." Her mouth pressed into a firm line and full of idealist fire, Asari shoved herself away from the railing and brusquely elbowed her way back through the crowd. Marian's hand shot out to try to grab her but grasped nothing but air in the end.

Letting out a long breath through her nose, the Champion stood at the railing, her body half-turned toward the doorway back inside, but her one elbow still rested on the sun-warmed stone. The Arishok was speaking now, his voice booming but still unintelligible from this distance. He didn't sound like what she remembered...like _her_ Arishok...the one whose soul she'd safeguarded for three long years and an adventurous journey over sea and land. The Arishok below bore two weapons of his own, long blades strapped to his back, but neither seemed to possess the same power as Sataareth. The vicious power. The edge as keen as the mind and body that it was forged for. The mind that ceased to be. The body that was no more.

Would Sataareth have to be given to this one? Was it his inheritance along with the position?

Marian watched the silver-skinned Qunari with interest. He was a good orator from what she could tell. The sound of his voice was clear, and he made good use of his hands and stance to convey his point to those (like her) that couldn't make out the exact words. To be Arishok was to almost be born into the role, to be an inherently promising soldier and earn your way up through your raw skill and discipline, garnering achievements and honors along the way. But, at the same time, any soldier could aspire to achieve it, work his way there, earn the right to the crimson pauldrons and Triumvirate seat. The ability was in the blood. Always there, just waiting to be realized.

But Asari saw something less than honorable here, something off. Her rage over Kont-Aar was consuming her, definitely, but even Marian felt a little uneasy. When the Arishok turned after his speech and finished climbing the steps to the Ariqun, she noticed why. The armor didn't fit him, didn't suit him. He didn't wear it like it was a part of him as _her_ Arishok had. He shrugged at it too much, subtly pulled at the leather strapping, walked like the leather chaps about his legs were in the way.

The ability was in the blood. Regardless of what she thought, she needed to remember that.


	45. Ariqun

"The individual is a human female, average height for her race, hair of copper, eyes of jade, long limbs proportional to her torso. She has the bearing of a warrior and even fashions herself so. But she is a woman. She is confused."

Marian watched, trying really hard not to show any expression on her face (particularly how insulted she felt), as the Ariqun stepped slowly around her. The Champion of Kirkwall finally got her wish. It came part and parcel with her being stuck upon an uncomfortable bench between two tripods, each smoking heavily with something that smelled like incense. It filled her nose and consumed her senses and, over time, put her mind at ease. This wasn't completely what she had expected. She had anticipated the usual: a meeting in an office or hall or throne room. What she got was a one-sided interrogation where she had yet to be asked a single question or even speak on her own behalf.

Two _tamassran_ accompanied the Soul of the Triumvirate, styluses in hand, taking notes upon long rolls of parchment that had the distinct look of being made from slivers of wood.

"She is of prime age and healthy. Wounds from battle are present, but the _asari_ guarantees that they have no ill effects."

There was more. Details were given about the texture of her hair, her skin, her teeth, her tongue, her feet, parts of her she didn't even know she had, the exact measurements of everything—even the space between her ears. It went on and on for she knew not how long. When it was over, the three kossith women circling her finally took their seats behind angled wooden desks just in front of her bench. She felt penned in...but the incense made her not care.

"The Arigena writes that you are Serah Hawke, the _basalit-an_ that slew the Arishok in a _tal-shok_ that he challenged you to. You are his soulkeeper by right. Is this true?"

"It is, Ariqun," Marian answered, her voice quiet but even.

Golden eyes narrowed. "Forgive us if we find this hard to believe. The _antaam_ told us it was a mighty warrior."

"Women are warriors out of necessity where I come from, Ariqun. Ferelden has long been plagued by the Imperium, by Orlais, by Raiders, and most recently by _vashun_. Our women learned long ago that to be indefensible is death...but that makes them no less women."

There was a twitch of the Ariqun's lips but nothing more. She gestured with a hand, and the _tamassran_ on her right continued the questioning.

"How long since were you born?"

Marian quirked an eyebrow. That was a really strange way to ask, "How old are you?" but she imagined that it could have something to do with calendars. She doubted the Qunari used the Chantry's time reckoning system in much the same way Tevinter's was also different.

"I have seen thirty-one Namedays," was the reply. She winced at herself. For the average Fereldan, that was half your life gone by. But the Ariqun had mentioned that she was of "prime age", so maybe all was not lost.

The Tamassran wrote that down like it was nothing. "And what is your lineage?" She looked up at Marian as if to punctuate the question, her eyes a mismatched silver to her skin of gold.

"I'm sorry?"

The Ariqun held up a hand when the Tamassran went to ask again.

"We shall work backwards," she said gently, the sternness mostly gone from her face as she regarded Marian with something akin to respect. "You told the Arigena you were in Kirkwall with your family."

"My mother and sister."

"What was your sister's occupation?"

" _Saarebas_." The word came out reflexively, almost unbidden. Inwardly, Marian was screaming at herself, telling her mind to stop, to block that off and leave it where it was. But she couldn't. Her mind was free to do as it wanted, to be nothing but honest. She shot an almost frightened look at one of the tripods and suddenly realized what it was. _Qamek_. That smoke that made one not kossith lose their will entirely.

"And your mother's?" The Ariqun's tone had not changed.

"Just...a mother. She raised my siblings and me with my father. We were farmers to start...before Father died...before the Blight."

"Does your mother also carry the blood of _saarebas_?"

"She did. It ran in her family line."

"And your father?"

Marian almost smiled. "He was a very accomplished _saarebas_. He sacrificed everything for his family."

"And his blood-?"

"Was used to hold an ancient Tevinter magister imprisoned." She hadn't meant to snap, didn't want to cut the Ariqun off in mid-sentence. But she knew where this line of questioning was going. "I don't know anything about where my father came from. I just know that he was a good man—despite being _saarebas—_ and the Circle, the Chantry, are the only ones that know anything about where he came from and his lineage."

She expected a glower, a snarl, some sign of rage at her impudence. There was nothing of the sort. The Tamassrans merely wrote down whatever she said. The Ariqun continued to smile that tiny, corner-of-the-mouth smile.

There were more questions. More unintentional answers. Marian felt herself becoming stiff and sore from sitting upon the same hard bench for so long, but she didn't let herself dare to so much as fidget. They went over everything that had happened in Kirkwall, in Seere, in Kont-Aar. She had watched the Ariqun's own eyes narrow and become fiery like Asari's had, and she wished she could look through those eyes and see exactly what she was thinking. But the Ariqun's reaction had been little more than a flash, a glimmer, a moment in time. A breath more, and she was composed, unshaken, serenity's very soul.

Eventually, it was over. The _tamassran_ gathered up their things and left the room with a nod each to the Ariqun. The woman returned the gesture and waited until they were gone before she spoke again.

"The refugees saw fit to name you _ben-hassrath_ and bestow that upon you that belonged to the fallen. I see no reason not to allow this to continue. You are appropriate for the role and have already proven your excellence." She took her eyes from Marian long enough to write something down on a piece of parchment of her own. "The _basrath-kata_ you may also keep as yours as evidence of your rank. Sataareth, however, will be brought to me."

"To be given to the Arishok?" Marian's voice was uncertain and hopeful all at once.

"To be given to he that is worthy of bearing it," the Ariqun corrected. "An _arishok_ is given weapons forged for his hands alone the same as any warrior."

"Then why allow me to keep a sword made for another?"

The Ariqun quirked that smile again. "Why allow you to wear that sash that so plainly belongs to another?"

Marian felt her face burn as her arms quickly clamped down about her waist, trying so belatedly to hide Taarbas' _asala_.

"As I said, you have proven worthy of bearing another's _basrath-kata_ as your friend Taarbas has seen you worthy of bearing his very life. That is no light accomplishment for a Qunari." She rose smoothly from her seat and gathered up her papers. "When the Arishok has proven worthy of bearing another's soul, perhaps he will be granted Sataareth. Until then, I trust you will still bring it to me."

"Of course, Ariqun."

The two women bowed their heads to each other, and the golden kossith took her leave.

Marian was shuffled out quickly. Two kossith women in plain shifts and brown woven belts came through a door behind her and took away the tripods. When they returned, they each grabbed her gently by an arm and helped her to stand. The world felt so much lighter in that moment, and it didn't take the human woman long to realize why she had to be so assisted. There was no up or down. There was only the space around her, and it was like her feet walked on nothing.

She was escorted back to her chambers, laid down upon her bed of goosedown and cotton, and supplied with a full pitcher of cool water. It was a strong suggestion that she drink as much as she could. A tiny cup with a little bit of a greenish liquid was also set down nearby. She was told it was for any pain.

Marian helped herself to the water, but the coordination just wasn't there. She spilled as much as she drank, and instead settled for the smaller cup of what she hoped was medicine. It burnt like old whiskey going down, her face contorting like she'd just tasted the most sour thing in all of Thedas. Minutes later (or was it hours?) all she knew was sweet oblivion.

She was moving...being moved...shaken. There was a jabbing at her shoulder, her collar bone, something slapping lightly at her cheek.

Then, there was the deluge.

Marian came to with a gasp and a jolt, her hair and clothing plastered to her as she sat up straight as an arrow. Through her sputtering, she saw Asari standing beside her, an empty jug in her hands that had once been full of water. Just beyond her, the _ben-hassrath_ armor hung on a stand, the tunic replaced with a new one more tailored to Marian herself. The leather glowed. The chain link shone in the sunlight pouring through the small window. Morning sunlight? How long had she been asleep?

As if translating the confused expression on her face, Asari answered her, "You've been out for two days. I'd ask if you knew that...but...clearly, you don't." The kossith woman replaced the pitcher onto the teak nightstand with a smirk. "Get dressed. And grab Sataareth. Both the Arishok and Ariqun want to see you."


	46. That Which Upholds

Her steps were quick, stiff. Her breath was caught in her chest. Her heart was beating so fast— _teppenna-teppenna_ as Asari teased—that she was afraid it would explode. Her mind was fooling her, she knew. She was not going to see the same man from Kirkwall, the same Qunari that had taught her so much by claiming he was teaching her nothing at all. The one she was proud to have gotten to know. The one who, through little more than his indelible sense of duty and honor, had once threatened to tyrannize her heart. Before she knew the truth. Before she could properly understand.

Marian and Asari reached a broad doorway flanked by more of those ferocious sculptures, giant creatures of stone that served to intimidate rather than inspire. These looked like massive cats with bulging eyes and long forked tongues. Would Anders have loved them? She couldn't be sure. All that mattered right then was what lay beyond the statues, beyond the doorway, inside one of the upper recesses of the _viddathlok_.

The human stopped on the lip of the threshold to collect herself. She was wearing only her lavender and crimson tunic over her leather leggings and boots. Taarbas' sash was bound about her waist, and she'd nearly left the room like that until Asari had thrust her leather bracers at her. Her _asala_. She couldn't forget them. Her mind had buzzed... _bracers_? Of all the things to have her honor tied to, her sword, her shield, even the knife she kept tied to her ankle... _bracers_? Seriously? But _ben-hassrath_ defend. They are not aggressive. She had to admit, after nearly the entire walk from her room thinking it over, that a pair of leather bracers was significantly less cumbersome than other items deemed _asala_ for others.

When she finally felt she was ready, she gave Asari a glance, a weak smile on her lips. Asari nodded and smiled reassuringly in return, a hand resting on Marian's shoulder in silent support as she simultaneously urged the woman forward. She clutched Sataareth to her chest like it were no different than a child's rag doll, the blade once more wrapped in cloth but not the familiar brocade from her bed in Kirkwall.

The room was positively massive, lined with columns thicker than the oldest trees and higher than a Chantry cathedral. Marian had been surprised to realize that the library was not here as it had been in Kont-Aar, but Asari said the library in Qunandar was not in one strict location but all over. Each pyramid had a collection, each domed basilica, each temple, and every school. The wealth of the Qunari was knowledge and that was a thing meant to be shared by all. Marian's footsteps echoed, but they were still not as loud as the drone from the far side of the chamber, voices meshing together, low but heated, hissing at each other in fluent Qunari.

Marian had walked in on an argument.

She stopped at least a dozen yards away from the trio, the Ariqun, Arigena, and Arishok all standing, huddled together. The Arishok had his arms crossed, glowering down at the two females that appeared to so berate him over something. The Arigena was so small next to him, but she appeared to be the most vocal. Her long-nailed finger was pointed up in his face as her other hand gestured vehemently at her side.

Their voices were not loud. But the acoustics in the room did nothing to diminish the row further. Marian stood there, the wrapped Sataareth in her tense arms, as her green eyes shot from one speaker to another. It turned out that the Ariqun's presence was almost entirely restricted to the role of a moderator in this affair. The Arigena was the instigator, her side fueled by what Asari and Marian had both reported to her upon their arrival.

"Why was Kont-Aar left to fend for itself?"

"The _antaam_ was over-extended as it was!"

"Then, why did you not go _directly there_ once Seheron was secured?"

"The men are exhausted! Would you have me lose _all_ our warriors to shadows and nightmares?"

The Ariqun's eyes flashed up to meet Marian's. It wasn't that she didn't know she was coming or had been oblivious to her presence. In fact, it was almost as if she had intended the Champion—the Ben-Hassrath—to hear this or found it convenient that she did. The tall golden kossith lifted her chin just a little.

"And what would you have done, Ben-Hassrath?" she asked Marian.

Taken aback, the woman gulped and attempted to find her voice. Everything she'd learned was suddenly flying through her head at a speed too fast to catch—Taarbas' words, Asari's words. Everything had made sense, and, yet, nothing was. She squeezed her eyes shut in a long blink before she met the Ariqun's eyes again and responded.

"I...I'm not certain that it's my place to answer that, Ariqun."

The Arishok snorted. "That's the smartest thing I've heard out of a female all morning."

Both the Ariqun and Arigena shot baleful glares at him but neither dignified his words with any other response. The Ariqun merely phrased her question again and punctuated it with, "It is well within a Ben-Hassrath's rights to suggest what he or she believes is for the good of the Qun. The situation in Kont-Aar is a matter of Qunari defense, and you, Ben-Hassrath, have actually been there and can supply us a much better assessment."

"Ariqun-"

The tall woman held up a hand and cut the Arishok off before he could retort further. She held it there, even as she waited for Marian to respond. The Arigena also waited patiently, moving herself back to stand next to her female counterpart with her hands clasped loosely before her, her face back in its usual serene smile.

Marian told them what Asari had seen, what had been witnessed of the refugees at Seere. She gave a rough number of those who had lived, the estimate of those who had died. She went on the longest about the Vashoth Stenok. She told of their tiny compound, of Sten and his adherence to honor even though he and his _kadan-fe_ had been left for dead even before the _vashun_ had been a true threat. She explained everything she knew of the actual Grey Wardens and how these Qunari (these honorable and fearless warriors) had gladly given their lives in the face of unbeatable odds just so that she and Asari and the others could get away to safety, could get here to Par Vollen and deliver this most dire news.

"Thus, Ariqun, if you would like my opinion," Marian stood up straighter, emboldened by her story, "I would suggest educating the warriors in how to best combat the _vashun_. My companions and I have been through the Deep Roads ourselves and know that it is not easy."

"From what you say, they fall to the sword as easily as any other," the Arishok said, his tone even but still only lightly veiling the disdain he felt. _Women are not warriors; they are not aggressive_.

"They do, Arishok, but their very blood is poison. Should even your blood mix with theirs, you would fall to the taint...as easily as any other. It doesn't know the difference between the strong and the weak. Fighting the _vashun_ and surviving is as much luck as it is skill."

His sniff was derisive, but she ignored it. Her mind had landed elsewhere, upon a memory she'd long ago tried to force aside. The ogre. Her brother's death. But that wasn't all that had happened. She remembered Flemeth, the looks on the malformed faces of the darkspawn as she had spread her wings and screamed and breathed fire. The looks of pure terror. She allowed herself to ponder further, to think of all the things Varric had told her when he would get word of the Blight in Ferelden. Darkspawn followed an Archdemon, a tainted dragon, and they both worshiped and feared it (though that last bit could have easily just been the dwarf's knack for expert storytelling). But she had seen them flee Flemeth, seen with her own eyes the damage that dragon's breath wrought.

And the Qunari wasted nothing.

Marian proposed her idea, supporting it with all the lore she had ever gleaned from her Andrastean upbringing in Lothering and in Sebastian's company. She made certain to emphasize that the Tevinter Magisters were held accountable for the very existence of the _vashun._ She left out the bits about the Maker's wrath and the Golden City, simplifying it into a tale of bad magic gone worse—a concept no Qunari should have difficulty grasping. She pushed, despite her almost lifelong inclinations to fear dragons herself, for the _antaam_ to use them as more than just simple transports. The half dozen she had seen couldn't have been the only tamed beasts on the island or the only ones capable of _being_ tamed. Her mind told her to stop. Her mouth kept moving. She had to shrug Sataareth into the crook of one arm as she gesticulated with the other, illustrating her idea for the actual siege that would have to take place to regain the colony as wasted as it was.

"There is sense in what you say," the Arishok said when she was finally finished. Even his expression had softened a little from the potential of it all. Strategy as well as brute force, a combination that suited him. "But how do you propose that we train such a force of _atashi_?"

Marian shrugged. "Similar to how you train the transports, I suppose."

"A lot of that was luck," the Arigena conceded, her brow furrowed just a little bit. Sympathy? Worry? It was difficult to tell. "And it took decades to get as far as we did. Even raising them from hatchlings can be...unpredictable at best."

"It is still an option that should be explored," the Ariqun stated firmly. "The loss of Kont-Aar was not one we could genuinely afford, and this must be corrected by any means possible." She looked to the Arigena. "Summon the handlers that raised and trained the _atashi_ we currently use. We must learn what we can and expand upon it." She turned to the Arishok. "You must do what you can to prepare the warriors. The risk is great, but it must be taken. We cannot wait longer than it absolutely necessary."

"But, Ariqun, if what this...Ben-Hassrath says is true, we risk losing the entire _antaam_. Kont-Aar was full of capable warriors—and we do not even have their blades to honor them!"

"Then they will be retrieved, and the Qunari will need sons." She turned back to Marian and her mouth warmed into a soft smile. "But we do have one that we may honor properly." She held out both her hands with the palms up. "You have brought Sataareth."

"Yes, Ariqun." Marian's voice was quiet as she nodded and moved forward to hand over the sword. She hesitated just a moment, her expression almost pained, before she reverently laid the wrapped weapon into the Ariqun's waiting arms.

"Something troubles you, Ben-Hassrath?"

"It...tugs at my chest, Ariqun. As if I were just forced to give up a part of myself."

"A part that was not yours to begin with," the Arishok interjected. His tone was neutral, but even as Marian looked over to him ready to defend herself, she saw his eyes drop to her waist and his lips quirk upward. "Though it seems you make a habit of claiming the souls of others."

"Ben-Hassrath is-"

"Oh, don't lecture me on who Ben-Hassrath is, Ariqun. I was there. I know." If his brow could furrow more, it certainly did. It would have had to with the way his eyes narrowed. "I saw what she did to my predecessor—defending a thief for her own selfish purposes. Are you certain she's ready for the role you have already entrusted her with?"

"None of us are ever _truly_ ready for the roles we must perform, Arishok," the Ariqun replied with just the hint of an edge to her tone. "But perform them we must or else we are not what believe ourselves to be. Serah Hawke performed the duties of a _ben-hassrath_ even before she came to us. All that's left for her is to truly understand he meaning of her role. There is no better teacher than experience. You are learning that, yourself, are you not?"

The male kossith opened his mouth to argue back but wound up merely snarling and backing down. The Arigena barely contained the signs of her amusement, the broader smile, the breath of a laugh through her nose.

" _Meravas_ ," the Ariqun continued with a sharp nod and a touch more authority. She turned back to Marian. "You may go, Ben-Hassrath. I will see to it that your _besrathari_ finds you shortly. There is much to get you acquainted with and very little time before the Festival." She raised one arm into the air and signaled for someone to come forward with her fingers. A few breaths later, and Asari was back at Marian's side and taking her by the arm to lead her away.

Behind them, the arguing continued anew, this time instigated by the Arishok, but Marian could hardly pay attention. She felt naked without Sataareth, and that feeling made her realize that she had long assumed simple possession of that weapon, the Arishok's _asala_ , would grant her immunity or at least provide a bargaining chip. They had asked for her opinion on Kont-Aar only because she had been there, had seen what was wrong, and providing her opinion in that moment was probably the most sway she would ever have over the Triumvirate.

Now, she was Ben-Hassrath. No more and no less. She was expected to defend the Qun, and she had no idea what that truly meant outside of a warrior's role. Despite knowing exactly what she was, her purpose had never felt so nebulous than it did right then.


	47. The Structure of Freedom

Fenris carefully circled his opponent. His bare feet found easy purchase in the sand of the ring as the sun beat down on the platinum of his hair, the tanned skin of his bare chest and arms. Sweat glittered as brightly as his lyrium markings, and the human opposite him regarded the quicksilver designs more warily than he did the greatsword in the elven warrior's hands.

It was his first mistake.

Fenris moved in quickly. He brought his sword up from below in a two-handed swing that was faster than his opponent was ready for. The human blocked with his own greatsword but just barely. The shock of the impact jarred him. Fenris could see it, the man's pale eyes wide and nervous, his tongue darting across his lips. His hands gripped the hilt of his weapon with white-knuckled ferocity. Fenris grinned. As with the others, this would be too easy.

The youth had an unfortunate appearance with a horselike face and protruding jaw. This nose had been broken more than once and reset poorly. But he had the look of a field hand or a mason, all muscular breadth and the endurance of one who worked long hours in the sun. Why the Qunari insisted this boy be a warrior was unknown if he had some other skill. But there was a grumbling. The Arishok needed all able-bodied men capable of fighting passably to train with the _antaam_. Perhaps this boy really was a mason, forced to trade his tools for a clumsy sword. He certainly didn't wield it like a scythe.

Fenris opted for a new approach. Even as he maintained his attacks in the _shokana_ , he shouted out bits of advice. He commanded the boy to straighten his stance, bend at the knees, keep his sword level, not swing like a girl. It barely helped, but the elf liked to think it made the drill last longer than it otherwise would have.

He had been pulled to assist in the training of all these men and boys, the Qunari apparently desperate to replenish lost numbers at Kont-Aar. It was enough to have Fenris never have to don the white robes and skip straight to the leather trousers and minimal armor of the Karasten. Desperation. That was something he'd never seen from the Qunari even while in the midst of their war with Tevinter. He'd seen plenty through the eyes of the Fog Warriors of Seheron, but it had never been anything like this.

When the morning drill was over, the flustered men put away their practice weapons and moved on to the next phase of their daily training. Fenris didn't know what it was and almost didn't care to. He knew that, in battle, these "soldiers" were little more than fodder against the darkspawn (or any enemy, for that matter). It did not sit well with him. He hung his own sword on the rack in the yard and strode across the sand to where his _ben-hassrath_ mentor was seated upon a stone bench in the shade of a palm grove.

It had pleased him to see how the Qunari had built their city while leaving a good deal of greenery growing wild. It wasn't something foreigners would have expected of them with the perceptions of rigid structure and focus on the military war machine. But the Qunari understood things that even the cultures that fashioned themselves more advanced didn't, knew the importance of the smallest of things, appreciated the flora and the fauna of the whole world for the natural laws they obeyed. Ben-Hassrath had been keen to reiterate all this to him and more.

The venerable elven man looked up as Fenris approached, a smile gleaming through the fading markings tattooed in his skin.

"You appear to be fitting well into your role, Karasten," he said. His voice was deep and warm. He had been a warrior, himself, once, his shoulders still broad and arms retaining the tone of the muscle beneath. Many Dalish of Rivain find their way to the Qunari, he had said. Where preservation is key, the Golden Giants excel. The blood of the elvhen was the strongest here, their ancient traits more pronounced. The races did not intermingle as happens so frequently in the south. To those like Ben-Hassrath, it was a boon.

"It is the only role I know," Fenris replied, taking a seat beside his assigned mentor. "I remember nothing else."

Ben-Hassrath nodded, his brown eyes taking in the lines of the lyrium markings. "Perhaps that is best. Tevinter corruption runs deep, and there is no telling what they had tried to make of you."

"I was told I did this to myself in a way...to save my family." His face darkened. "I have no way of knowing the truth."

"Even the truth can lie to you. Be what you are, Karasten. There is nothing else."

Fenris said nothing, merely stared out across the disturbed sand of the practice yard. Human _athlok_ were raking it all back to rights, smoothing away any proof that any had been there. All that would remain were the linear tracings of their tools, the rakes leaving their patterned marks behind. The elf looked down at his hands, the palms opened toward his face. Similar lines followed the bones in his hands and fingers, and he felt the tingle of power even as the lyrium remained dormant. The footprints of his past were gone, wiped away by what he had always seen as a curse. Every glimmer of quicksilver had reminded him of Denarius, of the torture and shame.

How would the Qunari utilize this ability of his? He couldn't help but wonder. Another reason why he'd been rushed through the usual process, he expected. He was no mage yet could do things to directly counter them. His distaste for them was palpable—one of the first things revealed during his questioning under _qamek_. They had debated making him Arvaraad, but he would have to prove his worth as a warrior, first.

The _athlok_ finished their task. There was no other sound beyond the wind in the palm fronds above. The two elven men sat together in silence. It was a calm silence that said anything that needed to be voiced all on its own. And it was loud. Fenris smiled, still gazing at his hands.

There were no chains that could reach him here. Not anymore.

* * *

"Oh, bollocks."

Isabela squinted down at the project in her hands. She was pinching folds of cotton cloth in her fingers while attempting to stitch a straight line with the tiniest needle she'd ever seen. She found herself feeling horrid for making Marian ever have to mend sails. This was ridiculous.

But what she found the most ridiculous about it all was that this was supposed to be all part and parcel of her training. Somewhere, through the fog of the _qamek_ and prying questions, she'd landed a place amongst _viddathari_ learning the ways of something called _vashkata_. The deadly shadow. It sounded more than a little intriguing, and it had been stressed to her at length that most in that role wound up aiding the _ben-hassrath_. She was shocked at the number of other women that accompanied her to the tedious lessons, all of them being trained with needles and thread and strange musical instruments and not a word of ever having daggers or poisons or anything _fun_.

As they worked, hunched over in their white tunics and black and blue sashes, the Qun was recited to them on a never-ending cycle. Not the whole thing. Maker, that would have been torture. It was just the relevant parts for their particular purpose, proverbs, anecdotes steeped in metaphor. There were certain things they were expected to repeat back, always in chorus, and Isabela had found it quite easy to memorize what she needed to to get by. She still didn't know what Marian found so heavenly about all this. Perhaps it was the structure where her life had been nothing but tragic chaos. As it stood right then, Isabela felt trapped, penned in, part of some sewing circle better suited for old women gossiping about the latest goings-on.

Not her.

Not a pirate queen of the Waking Sea.

She wanted her daggers back, and she wanted to find Marian.

Still, to even have a chance of seeing her dearest friend again, she needed to be compliant. She needed to play the part. She had already seen what rebellion and disobedience earned new converts. One young man had been taken away to the _viddathlok_ and had yet to come out. That was a week ago. He'd been a human from Nevarra, mercenary in the Tevinter army. He'd liked his previous life plenty well. Maybe it was just worse for prisoners of war. She remembered the penned mages when they'd first arrived and barely suppessed a shudder. Her stitches were crooked enough as it was. She didn't need her misgivings making it worse.

The _qunra_ instructing them was suddenly at her shoulder, kneeling and peering at the sewing clutched in Isabela's unschooled hands. That wasn't really true. She knew _how_ to sew just fine. That didn't mean she liked it.

"How can you guide something as unwieldy as a knife if you can't even manage a needle?" the human Qunari asked, her tone shockingly sympathetic. She wasn't patronizing, wasn't unkind or even stern. It was like she completely understood. Or wanted to sound like she understood. "You must control your fingers as well as your hands. Truth be it, you never know what you might have to use as a weapon to defend the Qun."

"You know," Isabela pushed to keep her tone calm and even conversational, "I hear words can cut as deep as any knife. Needles seem a pittance in comparison."

She might have meant to be scathing. But Qunra...smiled. Her lips broadening across her small, oval face, blue eyes twinkling. "We are the shadow of the Qun," she said, still looking at Isabela but addressing her words to everyone. "Everything we have is a tool: our minds, our hands, any blade that is handy, even the tiniest needle or single word of our voices. We walk where others do not see. We feel what others cannot touch. We solve the problems the army cannot. We cleanse foreign corruption from the inside out." She stood. "Finish your work, _viddathari_. There is much still to learn."

* * *

Varric had never realized that the Qunari language—Qunlat, as it was apparently actually called—was so tonal. Vowels meant everything, the sound, how long you held that sound, the importance of inflection. He sat with a group of other newly assigned _ashkaari_ as they were taught the alphabet, dipthongs, and other phonetic nuances. He had two notebooks before him. One had been assigned him by the _tamassran_ instructor and the other was his field journal where he noted other observations about the Qunari around him and those he met on a daily basis, now. He still didn't totally understand half of what came out of their mouths, be it his unfamiliarity with the language, yet, or the simple fact that he couldn't wrap his brain around their logic...but he was getting there.

Seeing them in their own element, though, he had to grant was a fascinating opportunity. They were less up-tight, more free with the information they gave or with conversation in general. They were pleasant. They cracked jokes, even. He didn't get them, but he lacked the context. All he knew was that kossith laughter was hearty and full and startling.

They were people, too.

On the sly, he'd jot down ideas for _Caught in Qunandar_ , his new serial about an Antivan merchant that found himself on the wrong side of the Tevinter-Qunari war and wound up arrested, sent to an internment camp on Par Vollen, and was constantly plotting ways to escape. His methods would constantly backfire, and instead, he would wind up ascending the ranks, his only means of true escape coming when he...

Varric ran a hand over his face, smudging his chin with the charcoal from his stylus. ...When he discovered his true calling as a spy and informant for the Arigena—by Andraste's teeth, this place was starting to crawl into his brain and make itself at home.

He really hoped that Hawke knew what she was doing.

He was getting too old for this shit.


	48. Last Ship Home

Marian agonized over her letters. Like the others, she was also stuck in a classroom, sitting upon a cushion on the floor in front of a low desk, learning the necessary penmanship for an alphabet used by the _ben-hassrath_ alone. They were effectively the Templars of this society, policing the populace and sometimes being sent abroad with the army to ensure that none went astray while in foreign lands. If any Qunari were found wanting, they were taken to the _tamassrans._ If none were available, the _ben-hassrath_ were considered equally capable of handling the problem. Marian had drifted off somewhere in that particular lesson. It was all she had heard before, and all she had to do was switch a few words around in her own set of knowledge, replacing "Templar" and "Chantry" and "Chant of Light" where appropriate.

The letters, though. She scowled at the bamboo paper as she scratched out the stick-like letters that were as much a deviation from the standard, swooping Qunlat script as they could be. But they still meant the same things, and that was what she had the most trouble with. She had picked up the language by sound while studying with Taarbas. Actually _seeing_ what she was saying made less sense than she felt it should have.

She had also noticed, during one of the times her mind wandered, that there wasn't a single left-handed Qunari in the whole lot. It had always been something she'd taken for granted, the Chantry not really caring and most people tending to be right-handed, anyway. But here it was stressed. Left hands were tied behind the back if necessary to break the habit early. It seemed a little extreme, but when she learned the reasoning, it fit in with every other shred of logic she was learning. It even tied back to her own weapons training in Ferelden.

The left hand must always be kept free to defend the heart.

Sound logic.

Asari had been assigned as her mentor. The kossith woman had to fight for the role, throwing out everything she could to prove to the higher-ranking _tamassrans_ that she understood Marian implicitly even though she wasn't a human herself. Race didn't matter here. They had shared experiences that bonded them deeply. They were _kadan_. Actually, that last bit had sounded like it would be written in all capital letters, much like Marian was practicing, now. She gave it a try, her lips mashed between her teeth as she painstakingly etched out the word " _kadan_ " in the stiff script of the _ben-hassrath_.

She nearly lost her focus when there was a sudden commotion out in the corridor. They were deep in the _viddatlok_ in one of the inner libraries, and the hallways were constantly bustling with _ashkaari_ and _asari_ and others of the learned class. There was no reason for them to be shouting, screaming, making a mad dash in some random direction like they were trying to _escape_ something. Marian paused and listened, wishing she had some sort of weapon on her. If worse came to worst, she could poke the invader in the eye with her stylus. Sharpened bamboo had a surprising resilience to pressure and force.

There was a clatter of footsteps behind her, and the other women in the room suddenly screamed. Asari turned from where she sat beside Marian and let out a gasp. Marian, herself, barely had time to react before a huge weight suddenly fell on top of her, forcing her down onto her desk and knocking the breath from her. She felt something sharp—several things, actually—dig into the flesh of her shoulders, feeling a heat at the back of her neck. The bun of her hair was tugged, and she got a whiff of the worst breath she'd ever smelled.

Getting her hands underneath her, she shoved. Her attacker quickly backed off, and when she stood and spun about—she nearly fell over from surprise.

"...Swoop?"

Her voice came out in a shriek even though she had intended something totally different. But there he was, her mabari, all lolling tongue and pricked ears and wagging stub of tail. He barked at her and quickly turned in place a full circle before looking at her and barking again. He crouched a little, his tail wagging more.

Swoop. That meant...

Ignoring the other women in the room—none of whom had ever been Fereldan, apparently, as scared as they were—and particularly the shouts of the _qunra_ , Marian ran out of the room, her mabari in the lead. She heard Asari shout behind her, "Sister! Sister, wait! _I am wearing a dress!_ "

But Marian didn't wait. If Asari wanted to follow and try to keep up, she was on her own. There were no more thoughts of letters or lessons or even what her damned duty was. She shoved her way through the thronging bodies. So many people were trying to find out what was going on...then suddenly trying to get out of the way in every way _but_ an orderly fashion as the massive and alien hound plowed ahead, his mistress in tow, and a breathless Asari following closely behind leaving generic apologies in her wake.

They ran. In broad daylight, things were no different. The city was crowded, always crowded, and the mabari dashing through them in the first place had already sparked curiosity and alarm. A small _karataam_ was even on the lookout, pointing and shouting once one of them caught sight of the strange beast. That he was being chased by a _ben-hassrath_ and an _asari_ was even more strange, but they didn't bother to question. Ben-Hassrath had every reason to be chasing down a danger...but weaponless? The soldiers closed in. Marian caught sight of them quickly and whistled through her teeth. Swoop quickly changed course but only slightly. Avoidance was preferable to confrontation.

They dashed through the market square, this strange parade, bounding over barrels and crates, dodging past tables and booths and poles for awnings. Glass shattered. Women screamed. Men also screamed at times and usually at the soldiers for not catching up with the menace sooner. How were they supposed to conduct business with this chaos? Even with no money involved, merchants never changed from one culture to another.

The market streets tightened into more residential ones as they continued, avoiding the main causeway to try to bottleneck the _karataam_ and eventually lose them. Asari had completely caught up by this point, her skirts tucked into her belt and her legs able to stride out. She didn't ask questions. She knew. And she was just as excited as Marian.

Somewhere along the line, they picked up a small horde of children. As usually happens at the sight of an unknown furry creature, there was a chorus of cries of pure delight and still another group joined in the chase. Also as usually happens, the soldiers commanded the children to return to their respective _tamassrans_ and leave this business to the adults. In the span of time it took to do that, the trio of apparent mischief-makers had vanished down another side street and were impossible to follow.

Eventually, the roads opened up again. Buildings were more spread out and lower, the sea peeking into view more and more often. The docks. Of course that would be their destination. Marian realized she hadn't even thought of where they were actually going until that point, just trusting in Swoop to show her what she wanted more than anything to see. Her soul. She wanted her soul.

The ground sloped downward, the buildings vanishing almost entirely as they reached a vast and paved expanse that acted as a sort of promenade between the city proper and the quayside. Ships of all kinds lined the piers. Dreadnauts, merchantmen, simple fishing boats. The horizon was littered with mastheads and furled sails. Swoop veered off to the left, heading north along the promenade. A ship very different from the others came into view. It was bottom-heavy and ungainly in comparison to all the others, painted brighter colors than it needed to be and named something odd in Rivaini.

The _Hawke's Flight_.

Asari laughed out loud beside her with what breath she had, pointing a long golden finger at the elves and humans moving about on deck. Swoop was barking and gave himself a boost of power, lengthening his strides as he bounded closer and closer to their destination. Marian's legs absolutely burned, her throat parched and lungs aching. But she didn't care. How far had they run? A mile? It had to be at least that, but she would have to figure it out some other time. She was seeing crates unloaded. The symbol of the House of Tides. The Qunari blades.

Swoop had already run up the gangplank by the time the women got there. Asari followed him, calling out to him and laughing. Marian had skidded to a halt. She stood next to the crates, all unloaded and seemingly untouched despite the time they'd been more or less abandoned. She heard chatter come down from on deck, the sailors apparently telling Asari the things that had happened during their absence, the raiders, the violence in the town...the poison gas. Swallowing back any worry that might have been trying to wear her down—irrationally or otherwise—Marian squared her shoulders and walked up the gangplank.

The sailors that saw her shouted out greetings, some rushing to take her by the hand or pat her on the back. The same stories got repeated, but all she heard was a dull roar as if she were hearing from underwater. For two weeks, she'd forced herself to think of everything and anything _but_ this, this moment...or this moment never even happening. _Teppenna-teppenna_ , her heart pounded, racing, her breathless lungs crying for air, but she refused to exhale.

As she watched, one last crate was being hoisted from belowdecks, a human sailor standing at the hatch and giving orders. When the crate was clear of the opening, he pulled it to the side with the aid of a few others and the ropes released. Her eyes were fixed on the hatch. She didn't care about the crate. Never the crate. Gray hands grasped the wooden deck. A body hoisted itself from below. Silver skin glistened with sweat in the hot afternoon sun, white hair plastered to the nape of the neck.

Taarbas saw her almost immediately.

They just stood there for a time, eyes locked. Marian finally let herself breathe, but it was harder than before. The air kept catching somewhere in the back of her throat, her chest heaving, and it took her longer than it should have to realize that she was crying. She took a few steps forward to close the gap, her hands raised as if she still couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. She'd shoved him from her mind, basically convinced herself that she would lose him to the darkspawn and would have to deal with that. Instead, he'd killed more Raiders come to collect the bounty on her head, wiped clean their trail, and stood there, letting her lay her hands to either side of his face, unscathed and smiling.

"It is to be, _kadan_ ," he said, his voice hitting her like a wave and bringing her mind back to where it should have been. "Did I not say I would find you?"

Marian managed to laugh. "You cheated. You used the dog."

His smile broadened, the corners of his lips pressing into her palms as she held his face. Suddenly, he raised his own arms and hugged her to him, one arm wrapping about her waist and the other hand tangling in the mess Swoop had made of her hair. She leaped up at the same time, holding him tightly around his neck as she buried her face into the slope of his shoulder. He smelled of the sea and sweat, of old pitch and that musky scent of one who spends long hours in the sun. She didn't want to move, refused to let go. He didn't seem to be inclined, either.

"Taarbas!"

It was Asari, her bright voice cutting through the moment in a jarring way. Marian worked hard to suppress a groan, especially when Taarbas took the opportunity to lower her gently back to the deck.

"Taarbas, you did it! And fought an entire crew of Raiders alone!"

He shook his head. "Not alone." His smile turned to Swoop who was sitting at Asari's side and panting happily. "I had the aid of a very powerful warrior and an old woman to whom I owe absolutely everything. Speaking of which..." He raised an arm and motioned to one of the sailors, a young elf boy no older than fifteen namedays. The boy returned quickly with a satchel in his hands, but it was obvious that he was trying to be careful with it. "You should take these." Taarbas handed the pack to Asari.

The female kossith peered inside. "What...what are these?" She tentatively reached in and pulled out one of the glass orbs, watching the green substance within swirl and seem to glow in the sunlight.

"It's some sort of modified _saar-qamek_. Adda-Saarebas made it for use against the Raiders." He looked back to the mabari. "It is still very dangerous, but perhaps not nearly so deadly as the usual recipe. You may want to have it analyzed and the recipe added to the archives."

"Of course," Asari replied, carefully replacing the grenade with the others. When she looked back up, her face was once again brightly smiling. "But, first! We must get you and all these swords to the Ariqun. And you're just in time! The Festival of Tides is set to begin tomorrow!"


	49. Retriever of Souls

He was overwhelmed with trepidation. A sense of foreboding gnawed at him, grinding away at the confines of his skull, his chest, forcing him to clench and unclench his hands as he waited in the foyer of the Ariqun's office within the _viddathlok_. The Qunari sailors Aqunaran had sent with him had helped to carry the heavy crates this far before they went to be reunited with their own ship and crew. Taarbas was now left alone. Surrounded by the smoke of what should have been a calming incense, he felt anything but. He paced. His shoulders tensed. He crossed his arms and uncrossed them. Ran clawed fingers through his hair and tugged at his scalp.

For all his patience, he hated waiting like this.

Eventually, after what felt like forever, the wooden double doors opened and a female elf in the blue robes of a _tamassran_ stood before him. She said nothing, merely gestured with a warm smile to urge him into the large room beyond.

The Ariqun's office was effectively little more than an anteroom to the same quarters she slept in, and it was furnished like any other livable space. Two modest couches of carved teak flanked a high-backed chair of the same wood but hewn into the profiles of two dragons with jaws agape, very akin to the bench the Arishok used while on diplomatic missions. Since the advent of what the _bas-_ lands had dubbed the Dragon Age, _atashi_ were viewed as a symbol of Qunari resilience in the face of oblivion. For, indeed, had these creatures not suddenly come back from believed extinction? Did Tevinter not fear them as much as they worshiped them? To the Qunari, the resurgence of dragons marked the advent of their own glory. It was so before the Exalted Marches against them. It would be so again.

Taarbas halted in his steps before he even reached the couches, standing as if at military rest, his feet spread and his hands clasped behind him. The simple action let him hide some of those outward signs of his stress.

The Ariqun merely sat upon the Dragon Seat, silent for a long moment. Her horns were unadorned with their usual ribbons and bronze. She wore a simple sleeveless frock of deep blue cotton tied with a golden-yellow cord. She waited for the _tamassran_ to leave and close the doors. Then, she slowly rose and closed the space between them. There was a discerning look to her eyes as her brow furrowed, brows drawing down over her nose. Her face suddenly twisted in confusion.

"Kithshok?" she inquired almost uncertainly.

The word sliced through him, lanced through his ruined chest with long-forgotten pain. How he managed to keep that reaction from his face was a wonder. After a moment, he found the words to respond.

"Kithshok is dead, Ariqun. I am Taarbas."

"I see." Her tone was quiet, flat. There was a narrowing to her eyes and a glint that shone of disbelief, but, whatever the thought was, she kept it to herself. Her gaze took him in then, long and concentrated. "You are without your soul, Qunari."

He inhaled a stiff breath. The action pressed his shoulders against the edges of Marian's shield strapped to his back, but he knew that such an item meant nothing for now. Not here.

"My soul came before me, Ariqun," was his clipped response. This was not the army, but she was still his superior. His old habits were resurfacing whether he wished them to or not.

"I believe we saw. Ben-Hassrath. The poor woman was inundated with souls when she came to us."

Taarbas cringed.

"Have you an explanation, Qunari?"

"We are bonded in brotherhood, Ariqun," he eventually replied, trying to swallow against the dryness in this throat. "I can offer no reason beyond necessity due to the trials forced against us on our journey. There were pirates and Dark Ones, and we were vastly outnumbered."

The Ariqun's lips quirked with amusement. "You would be more an authority on tactics than I," she admitted, her tone enough to let Taarbas relax just a little bit. "But I'm sure you did not come here for that. I was told you have the swords of the fallen?"

He nodded. "All those lost in Kirkwall are accounted for, Ariqun. Even the Arishok. I trust Ben-Hassrath delivered Sataareth to you."

"She did."

The woman turned, then, and went back to her seat. She lifted a hand to encourage him to sit upon one of the couches, but he gave a simple shake of his head. He was more comfortable standing. If he sat, he would bounce his knee or fidget or make some other repetitive motion to betray how nervous he was. He would do as he was bred to do: be the warrior. A warrior stood while addressing a superior.

Especially the Soul of the Triumvirate. A woman. It was only courteous. There was a plethora of other excuses that went through his head, but he chose to ignore them.

The Ariqun continued. "Kithshok was not numbered among the dead."

So much for hiding his reactions. He knew the gulp was as visible as it was audible and as equally unproductive. His mouth was dry, worse than a drought in winter, and the way his eyes widened with sudden panic didn't make matters any better. He ended up clearing his throat louder than he would have liked and struggled to meet her eyes again.

"But he is among them."

"Can you tell us how he fell? And where his blade might be that it can be retrieved?"

Taarbas' chest raised and fell with quick, shuddering breaths. It was not in him to lie. And it was painfully obvious that he could not evade. It was simply not in him.

"He is lost and his soul beyond saving, Ariqun. I regret...that I must tell you this. He dropped his guard when he should not have. Trusted when he should not have. He had a failing of purpose, and the result was...was appropriate." The last word was the hardest to get out. He still hadn't come to terms with it, he realized. Not any of it. When he was still removed from Par Vollen, it was easier. He had a duty, a mission, a goal. Now, his mission completed and him standing soulless before the Ariqun, all he could suddenly remember was a different day, a different Arishok, and the two of them were standing in this very spot in front of this very woman, discussing what had needed to be done to retrieve the Tome of Koslun. Word had finally come to them out of the Beresaad dispatched to Orlais. There was opportunity, and they had to take it. The army was roused and sent, journeying long to the despicable nation of corrupt wantonness only to find what they sought had already vanished...stolen...the escaping ship was described to them, and they pursued.

Kirkwall. The storm. The years surrounded by fear and loathing and being forced to take the blows dealt because their mission was too precious to jeopardize. And not all of them had been patient.

 _Vashkata_.

The pain lanced through his chest again but for a different reason. Betrayal, even in memory, bit deeper than any blade.

The Ariqun's expression was impassive, but sympathy glittered in her golden eyes. There was no telling what was going through her head. He knew she recognized him. There was no other reason to push this hard for answers. But she had not been told of his fall or exile. His loss of honor never reported. He had not even been numbered amongst the dead. A burning acid filled the pit of his stomach, bile threatening the back of his throat. To simply vanish from all record was as if to never have been. To have never had purpose or honor to lose.

"Your duty to the Qun is fulfilled, Qunari," she said at long last, the look in her eyes suddenly far away and her fingers lightly tapping the arm of her chair as if her mind were elsewhere. "Go now, and be what you are."

 _And what is that?_ The words came unbidden to his mind, but he somehow managed to not speak them. Instead, he simply nodded his head in respect and took his leave. He retreated through the same doors he had come through and practically stormed his way out of the _viddathlok_. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't care. The truth of his situation had been thrust in his face, dredged up things best forgotten.

The heat of the sun was nothing to him. The old familiar scents of spices and baking bread and tea floating about the marketplace filled his nose but did not soothe him. Children played in the street. The _tamassrans_ assigned to watch them smiling and chatting amongst themselves. Merchants called out for any who had yet to collect their daily rations. It was little more than a cacophony of sound swarming upon deaf ears.

He shoved his way through a set of doors and blinked upon finding himself in the training yard, standing practically toe to toe with a wiry elf with a greatsword at his shoulder. Fenris. His senses returned. His breathing shuddered its way back to normal.

"Taarbas." Fenris was the first to break the stunned silence between them. "I...take it your mission was successful."

The kossith replied merely with a shallow nod.

"I was just about to collect more recruits from among the craftsmen," the elf continued. "I could certainly use your input if you are not busy with some other task."

"You're...what?" Fenris' words jarred something even deeper within Taarbas, his violet eyes suddenly scanning the clusters of men in the practice yard with something akin to panic. One bore the pendant of a gemcrafter. Another had wristbands of leather branded with the insignia of a mason. Still others displayed proof that they were potters or swineherds, carpenters or shipwrights. So many pulled from their assigned purpose and dropped into one alien and unfamiliar. And unsuitable.

"What is this madness?" Taarbas breathed, his eyes wide and his mouth agape.

"The Arishok ordered that more be drawn from the populace," Fenris explained calmly. "I have been assigned to help train these men."

Taarbas whirled on him, a scowl on his face and flames in his eyes. "You do not train _potters_ and _masons_ , Brother. You train _soldiers_." His gaze shifted away to those about them, but the ire reflected in them did not change. When he spoke again, his voice was a low growl. "The Arishok should know to keep to his own business and leave the Arigena to hers. Who knows what calamity this will bring."

His mouth pressed into a grim line, he stalked to the weapons rack and yanked free a bladed staff with the scream of metal against stone. He then strode into the middle of the sandy ring and pointed his weapon at the burliest craftsman in the bunch. "You. Blacksmith. What is your weapon of choice?"

The blacksmith was a kossith barely out of adolescence. His horns were still short and thin and his limbs long and lanky. His skin, bronze as any Rivaini, was clear and unscarred. Even his hands had yet to develop the callouses of his craft as if he had only recently been assigned it. He swallowed hard in an attempt to find his voice.

"The axe."

"Then retrieve it and face me."

The boy did not question. He simply did as he was told, all gangly nervousness and sweating brow. Taarbas watched him closely. He gripped the axe like a hammer. It was a sensible reaction given the boy's background, but it would not help him unless his opponent was in the same position as an anvil. Taarbas called for the drill to begin, and they circled each other. He watched the other's footing, his stance, the spread of his shoulders, and the placement of his hands on the haft of his weapon. There was evidence of some training there. It was not strictly of the Qunari way but something else. Something very Fenris in nature.

This would be too easy.

He waited for the blacksmith to move on him, first, an act that took much less time than it should have for a warrior measuring up his opponent. But he charged, and Taarbas was ready. His staff caught the boy across the midriff, which doubled him over. The flat of the blade connected with the side of his head, and the butt of the shaft rammed into his hip to send him sprawling. The boy lay there, coughing and wheezing in the dust, as Taarbas smoothly stepped over to him and looked down, staff in one hand and the other outstretched to help the defeated to his feet.

"You were just defeated by the least of the army," he stated, the flatness in his tone mixed with an almost apologetic warmth. "You did not even come close to touching me...and yet he expects you to fight?" He turned his attention back to the others when the blacksmith was once again standing. "You are not of this caste," he announced to the lot of them. "This is not your profession. Go back to your shops and your fields. Go back to your tools and your crafts. Those who build should have no business with those that destroy."

He motioned with his spear to the open doorway.

As the craftsmen filed out, Fenris came to stand next to his friend. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched the dozens of men and boys leave. Relief seemed to wash over them as they left the training yard of the barracks.

"That's in direct defiance to the Arishok," he said lowly to keep the words only between the two of them. "In my experience, that's generally a bad idea."

Taarbas snorted derisively. "The Arishok is in defiance of the demands of the Qun. By all means, feel free to tell me which is worse."


	50. Conspiracy

They all managed to find each other in time for the evening meal. Asari had found where they'd all been assigned and made her rounds to collect them. Isabela and Varric were particularly relieved after having been cooped up deep in the _viddathlok_ for days, and Fenris was glad to see the others, a rare smile easing the worried lines of his face. Taarbas acted as if nothing were different, but there was an odd tenseness to his shoulders that Isabela spotted right away.

"Your veins are showing."

"What?" the kossith looked up at her abruptly from where he had been loading a wooden plate. His tone was brusque but the look in his eyes more fearful than irritated.

The pirate pointed nonchalantly to his neck. "If you clench your jaw any tighter, you just might burst." She turned her gesture into a reach for the basket of brown bread that had been placed between them all. "Something on your mind?"

"Nothing that concerns you." He turned his attention to his food, fresh bread and raw vegetables, and a pile of some grain that Isabela couldn't say she'd ever seen before. It smelled good, whatever it was.

"You're my friend," she said, breaking her bread apart with her fingers. "Of course it concerns me."

Varric had taken some interest in the conversation by this point, slowly chewing at his food while he regarded his companions thoughtfully. "I'm surprised, Rivaini," he commented. "That's the first time I've ever heard you use that term so seriously...especially the version that begins with ' _ka_ ' and ends with ' _dan_ '."

Isabela elbowed him. Hard. But there was no mirth in her expression, no devious glitter in her eyes. Taarbas had the bearing of a brewing summer tempest, and that unnerved her. He was home. Asari said Marian had already been to see him. His task was completed with the lost swords safely returned to the Ariqun. And, yet, he obviously felt no peace. Fenris beside him also looked a little uneasy but more in a sympathetic way.

Taarbas was looking at her, now, hard and scrutinizing. For the first time, she felt she could sense the thoughts running through his head, his perceptions of her, what he knew of her past, how they had interacted this whole time since the _Hawke's Flight_ first set out. "Friend" was probably not what he would call her. But there was one very powerful link between them, and if _she_ trusted Isabela enough...

He tipped back a draught of water without taking his eyes away from her. When he set his cup back down, he took a breath in readiness to speak.

"Eat first," he said with a gesture to her plate. His voice was low to keep the words between them. "What I have to say is not for public ears. Not yet, anyway."

Her face screwed up in confusion, but he held up his hand before she could ask anything further.

"I highly recommend the _qunoa_ ," he continued, his tone forcibly light and conversational. "No warrior's meal is complete without it."

" _Qunoa_?"

"The boiled grain," Asari put in, pointing to the pile of it on her own plate. Her facial expression was absolute opposite of her companions. Her smile was wide and sunny. Her eyes glittered in the light of the sun as it lowered toward the horizon. "There are one thousand two hundred and forty six recipes made from it, but that doesn't change the fact that it's most commonly found in field rations." She shoveled a bite into her mouth with her spoon. "It's the only thing that can keep a grown kossith full and strong."

"Eat hearty," Taarbas recommended. "You will need it."

They ate in relative silence. For days, the Kirkwallers had been itching to meet up again if for nothing more than a breath of sanity, but now that the opportunity was presented them, they found they had little they were comfortable discussing within earshot of lifelong Qunari. Isabela, particularly, was loath to talk about her sewing lessons. She had made progress—even her crotchety excuse for a _tamassran_ thought so—but she didn't have the heart or patience to explain how that tied to the purpose she'd been given. Especially to Varric. She doubted he would understand.

Asari tried to ask at one point, prodding each of them to find out how their studies were progressing. They muttered vague responses. Fenris was more specific in his accomplishments but stopped himself short when Taarbas began to tense again. The elf rested a hand on the other's shoulder and whispered something to him, his green eyes darting across the table just long enough for Isabela to catch on that something was going to happen that involved all of them. When he fell silent, Taarbas nodded and got to his feet.

"Come with me." He motioned to Varric and Isabela and began to turn around. "Asari," he paused long enough to look over at the female. She regarded him expectantly. "I advise you find Ben-Hassrath. And keep her occupied. Training...anything that keeps her in the _viddathlok_."

Asari's brows knitted together. "But she was going to-"

"Keep her occupied." And he began to walk away.

Fenris followed, and Isabela and Varric rushed around the row of tables to catch up. The kossith was taut through the shoulders, his fists clenched and steps stiff. He led them through a couple of side streets approaching the barracks, turning before they reached the training yard and into a long, two-storey building that was broken up into small, very modest apartments. He stopped at a doorway and motioned them inside, his eyes moving along the narrow corridor to ensure no others were around.

The room was cramped with all four of them, and the only thing to sit on was a low cot along the far wall. Isabela quickly sat for nothing more than to get out of the way, her amber eyes fixing on Taarbas with a stern expression as he closed the simple wooden door.

"Alright, so what is all this?" she demanded. "It's uncomfortable enough feeling secluded in a crowd these days without your...moodiness adding to it." She glanced at Fenris who had sat down beside her. "And I've had plenty enough of that for my lifetime."

"This is no time to be flippant," Fenris replied firmly.

Taarbas shook his head. "I will admit that my mood is bleak, and for that I apologize."

Isabela's jaw dropped in sudden surprise. She hadn't expected anyone—especially him—to agree with her. She had expected even less to receive any sort of apology. Last she knew, she had hardly been worth respect in Taarbas' eyes. Or so she had felt with all the angry staring and growling and talking to her like she was a _thing_ rather than a person. The shock quickly melted into a soft smile of comfort. It was the way he was leaning against the wall, how the tenseness of his entire form melted into a figure of hopelessness. "I take it your mood is related to this need for a secret meeting?"

"Yes. But it is...difficult to explain. It is a situation three years in the making, but the immediate issue is the Arishok's approach to regaining Kont-Aar."

"So, you're not going to tell us the story and, instead, skip straight to the end?" Varric's expression was incredulous.

"It is irrelevant." Taarbas inhaled a breath. "What's happening now is the Arishok drawing from the craftsmen to populate the military—a shameful act directly against the demands of the Qun. Worse is that he doesn't need to do this at all. Not if he's worthy of his armor." He moved as if to pace but quickly realized that there was no room to do so. Instead, he fell back against the white stucco. "Word from the docks is that he's yet to even send a Beresaad to scout Kont-Aar."

"From what I understand, the Arishok is a busy man," Isabela said with a shrug. "There might be more to sort out than you're aware of."

Taarbas scowled at her. "Word from the docks is word directly from the mouth of a Kithshok. I don't expect you to know what gravity that implies." His gaze turned to Fenris. "When I met with my brother in the practice yard today, I was very disturbed by what I saw happening. Boys not meant to ever bear a sword were being taught needlessly. Seeking answers, I sought out old comrades that...still know me. They, too, have questions. But it is not their duty to question."

"But yours is?" Varric still regarded the kossith skeptically. "This is where I think that three-year-long story would really come in handy. For context if nothing else. The Arishok _I_ know was a tactical genius and arguably the most honorable figure in Kirkwall. What you're insinuating makes me think _this_ Arishok is a total idiot."

"He's the very opposite, my friend," Taarbas replied lowly, his eyes turned to the floor and his head slowly shaking back and forth. "And that is what's so dangerous. But, as you're so insistent to know all the details, I shall indulge."

And he did. He told them of the Qunari occupation of Kirkwall, of their expulsion, of a warrior who stabbed his comrade in the back and left him for dead. He told them how he had once been Kithshok, the right hand of the Arishok and the one originally entrusted to return the Tome of Koslun to Par Vollen when it was assured that the army would have to return without its head. He told him of the Vashkata who had been corrupted by the foreign city and the darkness there. He told them of his time in exile as Taarbas, how he lived among city elves and sailors until he had no choice but to embrace the purpose unjustly forced upon him.

"And even our homecomings intertwine," he finished acidly. "He returns a conquering hero while I am soulless and erased from the public record. It is possible my rage colors my view, but I have already learned too much. Kithshok is also wary about how Seheron was won. There was no true battle, no losses, no glory. And yet, the magisters fled, leaving it in Qunari hands. He receives glory for a battle not fought and a colony lost, and now disrupts the order of things." He paused for a moment, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "What I ask of you is to help me exact justice as would be the duty of any Qunari aware of such corruption. But I do not deny that my motivations are just as equally vengeance."

"No worries, sweet thing," Isabela commented, her usual cocky demeanor returning when she smelled the familiar territory of backstabbing and villainy. "Justice and vengeance are both very familiar to us."

"Regrettably," Fenris muttered as if to himself. The pirate jabbed him in the ribs.

"What do you need us to do?"

"The only thing that will help us at all would be to find proof." Taarbas clawed at his hair with one hand. "Right now, matters are merely dubious, and my personal grievance is irrelevant."

"But...he stabbed you in the back!" Isabela had to catch herself so as to not scream in protest. She had jumped to her feet, anyway, quickly closing the space between them. "And there's even physical proof-"

"That could have come from the weapon of any other." He quickly grabbed her bronze-skinned hand before she could come anywhere close to touching his scars. "We need proof that this dangerously affects the people as a whole, and I'm entrusting this task to you and the dwarf. You are trained to find answers. And, to be completely honest, there is no other option."

"Then, where do we begin?" Varric asked, taking Isabela's abandoned seat and leaning forward, steepling his fingers before his chin.

Taarbas met his eyes, a ghost of a smile curling his gray lips. "We begin with Seheron," he replied, a strange conspiratorial rumble entering his tone that managed to chill the blood in the pirate's veins. He still had not let go of her, and had her gaze transfixed with a strangely heated, searching stare. "And we find out why the Arishok could not be bothered to even try to help Kont-Aar."


	51. Matters of the Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I want to take this opportunity to thank everyone that has stayed with me until this point. The fiftieth proper chapter is a huge milestone, and I regret to say that this tale still has a while to go before it reaches conclusion. But it's getting there. It's close. It's palpable. And without your continued support, I probably would have given up on this beast of a plot months ago. All of you are worthy of kadan, and I am forever grateful.

She felt awkward in a dress. Worse was that the Qunari had no mirrors, so she had to almost completely trust Asari's word that it suited her well, reflected her position, and even flattered her figure somewhat. And the flattering aspect, apparently, was only necessary because, the _tamassran_ prattled on, she was in the pool of potentials because even _saarebas_ were a vital part of society in their own way.

Marian had lost it at "pool of potentials."

"Are you trying to tell me that this dress makes me look even more ideal as _breeding material_?" Swoop groaned from the other side of her apartment as if to punctuate her remark with his own opinion.

Asari winced a little and attempted to smile placatingly. "That's...really the whole point in the Festival of Tides, sister. The population has been depleted, and it's our duty to fix it. You are Qunari, now, so it's your duty, too."

Marian felt a rock drop to the very bottom of her gut. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and it was a struggle to swallow it down. She remembered her traits being taken down so carefully by the Ariqun and her assistants, measurements, family background, age, behavioral tendencies. Were they going to breed her like a dog? Her head jerked over to her mabari almost fearfully, her teeth busily gnawing away at her thumbnail as Asari busied herself with any last alterations to the dress.

It was a simple thing, long to the floor and made of a flowing pale cloth so sheer that Marian had worried it could be seen right through. It was hard to tell if it was blue or green but seemed to have aspects of each. The cloth was gathered at her shoulders to cross over her chest and around her waist then draping to the floor all around.

In reality, she shouldn't even be calling it a dress. It was just one long length of cloth twisted here and tucked there. She could see her scar, the raw, puckered flesh completely exposed low on her ribcage. Truth be told, she could see all of her scars save for those on her legs. She didn't have the pretty skin for this sort of get-up. When Asari was done, the frazzled human insisted on binding Taarbas' sash about her again for the comfort if nothing else. The kossith woman shook her head and wound up fighting Marian for control of the long strip of crimson cloth.

"You cannot wear this, sister! Not to the Festival."

"I'm its keeper! I made a promise!"

Asari steeled her grip and gaze both, her golden eyes narrowing at her friend just a little bit, enough to give the other pause. She shook her head once and gave a final tug. Something in her expression struck Marian to the core, the fight abandoning her all at once. She released the sash and wilted to the floor, her face in her hands as she sat in a puddle of pale cloth. It had almost physically _hurt_ to have the sash taken from her, and she was suddenly feeling very overwhelmed.

"You cannot help him like this." The kossith's voice was less stern as she carefully rolled up the sash and set it back on the modest washstand. "He told me what he did...and I realize, now, that you don't fully understand the implications." She knelt before her friend and raised Marian's tear-stained chin with her fingertips. "Qunari generally do not entrust their souls to another while alive. Those that do often require re-education or are too new to the Qun to realize exactly what they are doing. They think it's a sign of love or affection. Those that know exactly what they're about—like Taarbas—have other motives."

She paused long enough to fix Marian's hair, brushing away some loose strands of copper that had escaped the tight braid that crested her head and trailed down her back. "I do not know his story...but he has told me enough that lets me know he's lost much. Too much. I've tried to learn what I can about him since we got here, but the annals tell me nothing. But, to be honest, the stories of those returned from your Kirkwall all varied. Especially when it came to describing you.

"But, I digress." Asari set her hands to her knees and pushed herself back to her feet. She then held down a hand to help Marian up as well. "It's very serious what's happened. It cannot be undone, not even by the Ariqun"-her eyes narrowed as she regarded Marian searchingly-"and I don't get the impression she wants to."

"How do you mean?" Marian inquired sharply.

Asari shook her head again. This time, her eyes were sad, her usually smiling mouth down-turned in concern. "There is nothing you can be told that will help you. You must learn on your own. And for that, I'm very sorry."

The human reached out and grabbed her friend by the arm. "Tell me, Asari," she demanded in a low and almost dangerous tone. "You know better than to think me simple or stupid."

Asari regarded her friend with a pained expression, sympathy and sorrow commingling in her eyes. "He gave you his soul, enslaving himself to you. Qunari who know what they're about do such a thing only in the most dire of circumstances. That he has your shield makes me think that you reciprocated the action. The two of you are now bonded in all things—honor and shame, life and death. His accomplishments are yours. His crimes are yours. And you equally reflect back upon him. In the simplest terms, you are one individual under the Qun, and that is always a difficult complication."

Marian's gaze was flat with only the slightest glint to her eyes to betray that she was actively processing what had just been told her. Without a word, she pushed passed Asari and left the room, venturing out into the cool air of the _viddathlok_ 's expansive corridors. The kossith did not follow, did not call after her. Not even Swoop dared brave walking in the shadow of his mistress right then. There was a storm brewing somewhere within, but she couldn't even say with any certainty to herself that it was anger. She was wearing a dress, told that she was breeding material, practically lectured for a bond she shared with...

She paused after several minutes of mental stewing as the clarity hit. Reaching out a hand quickly, she managed to prop herself up against a pillar and gave herself the briefest of moments to take in her surroundings. She was in a square surrounded by buildings that all served one bureaucratic purpose or another. But that was immaterial compared to the thought screaming through her head. Her whole life had passed her by without her ever realizing what she'd truly wanted from it. Things kept falling into her lap that any sane person would have wanted: wealth, rank, fame, adoring supporters to balance out the hard-earned enemies.

Her head thunked back against the cold granite. She'd only wanted her friends, her family, and some purpose to tie it all down to. But wanting wasn't needing. It very rarely was. She needed her friends the way they needed her...but that was still not the same.

She continued on, following streets she vaguely recognized until she came to the barracks. The large doors to the practice yard were closed for the night, a few soldiers milling about outside in little more than their trousers and boots. It was a warm evening, and they seemed to be playing some sort of knucklebones game over laughter and drinks. Marian didn't recognize any of them. Wandering still further, she came to the building where Asari told her at least Fenris had been housed, a long structure of white stucco and a slate-shingle roof. Peering through the windows glowing with light from inside, she was unable to see him. And there were still none that she knew within, otherwise.

Her walk grew longer, taking her all through the military quarter and into the market. Her bare feet were covered with dust as was the hem of her gown, but given as she hated the thing, she didn't see how it mattered. She eventually came to a torch-lit avenue that was bordered on both sides by open colonnades. The smell of incense and spice was powerful here, and she inhaled deeply to take it all in. It calmed her, soothed her, made her feel easy but not in the way of the _qamek_. She made her way down the street.

Recessed into little alcoves appeared to be shrines, one between every pair of smooth columns. Candles and incense burned, and now and again, Marian spotted people kneeling or sitting on plush cushions upon the ground, heads bowed, bodies bent, praying. What it was Qunari prayed to or for, she had no idea. Gods and spirits were illusions to them. But that was just one of many things she had yet to learn.

The street split, eventually. It terminated at a great statue of some sort of large-beaked bird and was bisected by a narrower avenue. This one was also lined with columns but the shrines were much fewer and further back in the dimness of some sort of garden. Fewer prayed here, but Marian was genuinely enjoying the silence. It teamed up with the incense smoke to ease her troubled spirit

But it could not hold back the pang of adrenaline that shot through her when she caught sight of a kossith with a distinctive scar on his back.

Taarbas was hunched over, practically curled into himself upon a cushion before one of the smoking altars, his hands grasping at the back of his neck. Marian had simultaneously hoped to find him and expected that she wouldn't. But...where there was a need...

Her footfalls were soft as she approached, unwilling to startle him or even properly draw attention to herself. There was a low vibration of sound. He was rapidly reciting verses from the Qun, repeating certain lines over and over, but Marian knew too little to draw any significance. He halted as soon as she was next to him. His body was frozen, his voice silent. The only sign of life was the expansion and contraction of his back with every breath.

Marian said nothing. She merely lowered herself to her knees on the cushion beside him and laid a hand on his tense shoulder. When that brought no reaction, she rested her head against him, too, moving her mouth closer to his ear to allow for a single whisper.

"Why?"

He jerked his head in her direction but kept his eyes pointedly aimed at the stone of the floor. "Be less vague with your question, woman."

She ignored his harsh tone, reaching out her other hand to draw his face to look at hers while she straightened upright once more. He was extremely reluctant and fought against her touch, but he looked all the same. His eyes were red and his face sagged, but as soon as his violet eyes met her green ones, his shoulders drooped and he laid his hand over the one she held alongside his cheek.

"Why did you give me your soul, Taarbas?" she asked almost breathlessly. That feeling of being overwhelmed was trying to creep back up her spine, and she was fighting it with every ounce of courage available to her.

"Why did you give me yours?" he returned.

"I thought it...meant something else. I thought I understood."

He reached up his other hand to cradle her head. "You and I are one, _kadan_ ," he said lowly, and the gentleness of his voice coursed over her like the softness of Orlesian velvet. "Now and forever."

"Why didn't you tell me what it meant?" Her voice was barely audible, even to her, and the back of her throat swelled and burned with the choking force of tears.

His eyes burned into hers, that familiar searching gaze that dove as far into her as it possibly could. But it was difficult to tell, this time, if he was looking for answers or trying to give her one. When he spoke, it was a whisper as hushed as hers.

"You already know. And that is enough." He drew her to him, hugging her tightly to his chest when she couldn't hold it in anymore. She cried, hard yet silent sobs wracking her entire frame as she pressed a fist to her teeth. "I have known you since you first came to our compound. I learned you by the cadence of your steps and the sound of your armor. But, back then, you saw and didn't see. You have only seen me as Taarbas...not as what I was before."

Taarbas held her and told her his story, breathing the words into her hair. It was the same as he told the others, but he continued further, relating how he had chosen her as the only route to his redemption. Female or not, she was a kindred spirit, and he revealed that his request for help with the swords had been little more than a test of her merit. She had asked for nothing in return and, due to that, had everything to gain by it.

And so had he.

"There was no one I could trust more," he concluded, "for this task is far from over. I have been erased and forgotten. My honor was stolen at the expense of my soul, and I intend for it to be returned in the same manner." He tilted her face up toward him. It was her turn to resist. Not because she didn't want to look at him or hadn't the heart. She simply did not want him to see her in the mess that crying always left her. As if he hadn't seen her cry before. "I need your strength, _kadan_. I need you to _be_ strong. And you must trust me."

His eyes completely swallowed her. There was nothing outside of them, not a breath of wind, not the smell of incense. His body surrounded her, and all she wanted was to melt into it, to truly be one entity that the Qun so now dictated for them both. She kept her hand alongside his face, relishing in the simple sensation of the smoothness there.

She didn't remember kissing him. But it must have happened. She had breathed as he breathed, tangled her fingers in the length of his hair, felt a tingling rush of urgency that was anything but the stoic resilience the _tamassrans_ had drilled into her. But what did the Qun care for a nameless exile and his soul? For that was what she was to him.

And that was all that mattered.


	52. Serious Vashedan

The throngs of people were going to make this task ridiculously simple and astoundingly difficult. Isabela could tell that right away. She and Varric had taken up position at one of the communal dining areas near the building used for the Arishok's apartments and office. It was a simple structure like anything else near the barracks, whitewashed and shingled with slate. Two storeys of small windows stared out at them and were drawn with blinds made of bamboo strips to shield the interior from the blazing sunlight. There was one double-door entrance in the front, and Varric's earlier reconnaissance revealed a second entrance around the rear on the second level that emptied onto a causeway that connected with the _viddathlok_.

The crowd was beneficial because the pirate and dwarf blended in beautifully, but it left them a good many witnesses. Too many. Neither of them had business in the military quarter at all let alone the Arishok's office. The one blessing was that the mission was expected to be fast. Taarbas said he knew the inside of that building better than any other and had provided a detailed description of the layout. The previous Arishok had his office and meeting room on the upper floor near the causeway exit, but Isabela was hesitant to think this current one did the same. Unless it was undeniable tradition. She even knew of other ship captains that refused to have their quarters aft because it was the weakest part of the ship. If what Taarbas said of this Arishok was true, his wily nature might have urged him to be more secure in his endeavors.

She and Varric sipped at their drinks and eyed their surroundings. People were rushing to finish their daily tasks early to allow the most time for celebrations, and more than just soldiers mingled here. A group of women tittered (and Qunari tittering was a strange and unexpected sound) from across the plaza. They stood wearing willowy dresses in pale colors, skin exposed surprisingly suggestively, as they whispered back and forth to each other, pointing at visibly frustrated soldiers trying merely to sharpen weapons or mend armor. Isabela eyed up one group and then the other, an amused smirk crawling across the dark skin of her face. Even here, certain aspects of...being alive...simply could not be denied.

"You know, Rivaini," Varric's voice broke through the silence between them, "I've realized something."

"And what is that? You've figured out a way in?"

The dwarf shook his head, swirling his cup of wild berry juice with a concentrated expression. "In all the jobs we've ever taken, all the work we've ever done for other people, the Qunari are the only ones that didn't turn around and stab us in the back."

Isabela raised a curious eyebrow at him. "I seem to recall the Arishok doing a lot of stabbing. At Hawke, where she stabbed back—but you get the idea."

"Something I doubt he would have done if everything had gone according to plan. You know." His eyes flicked up to her, fixing her with a hard, narrow stare.

Isabela's eyes narrowed in return. Her face burned with remembered shame and embarrassment, but this was neither the time nor place for such talk. "How many different ways do you want me to atone? I kill Castillon. I bring along Taarbas at Hawke's insistence. I let myself be schooled in sewing because they say it will help my dueling—and what choice do I have?-just so that we can all stay here and not die. And, now? Now, I find myself-" She cut herself off before she could say, _helping an_ _exile commit treason just so he can be saddled to the Qun again._ She wasn't actually upset with Taarbas dragging them into this particular mess. She was in full support of it. It had been the pain in his eyes that told her he was more a slave being free of all this than being a part of it. And what Asari had told her on the boat fleeing Kont-Aar was starting to make some sense. Freedom, like justice, was just an idea in a world of ideas.

She sighed, "The point is...you're right. And being as we _are_ Qunari, now, we can't afford to ruin that reputation."

"Not quite what I was getting at," Varric smirked. "I was going to say that we were probably just lucky. Qunari seem to have the same problems as anyone else, all the way down to friends stabbing each other in the back." He drained the last of his juice and took a glance over his shoulder at their target. "And we're not going to get another chance at this. I've been thinking about that alley, the one under the causeway. That's the most cover we're going to get." He looked back at her. "I'll keep the crowd busy. You feel free to keep redeeming yourself."

Isabela nodded and stood, making a show of stretching languidly and beginning to walk off in the opposite direction of where she was really going.

"And, Rivaini," Varric said lowly to her as she moved behind him, "I really do have faith in you. We all have our shortcomings. You've already more than made up for yours." He winked slyly to her and then turned away.

As she moved along her chosen meandering path to the alley, Isabela heard Varric start up a boisterous conversation with others in the plaza, telling them of some great historical battle he had read about in the annals. It didn't matter what it was so long as it kept eyes off the buildings around and especially her. The heather gray of her clothing wouldn't blend in with whitewash at all no matter how much shadows loved it.

It worked well enough. She made it to the chosen entry point without issue and without being followed. The glassless window was entered easily and the storage room beyond was so neatly kept there wasn't even a weapon rack to knock over accidentally. She couldn't even had she wanted to. The things were bolted to the walls and floor. It was a good opportunity to arm herself, however, and she took it. Daggers, swords, axes, anything she could possibly want was at her fingertips, looking newly forged and waiting for hands yet to hold them. Future asalas? Her special breed of lack of reverence forced the thought from her mind as she snatched up two fine daggers that looked like they had a vicious bite. These, she stuck through the leather of her belt and continued silently on.

The main corridor was empty and the large room opposite was also devoid of life. It looked to be a training room of its own, though too small for anything more than two combatants. The stairs up were just inside that door, and she kept her back to the wall as she ascended. There was a low hum from somewhere above, and she didn't know if it was a droning of voices carried in from outside (though she definitely could still distinguish Varric's over everything else) or if it turned out she wasn't truly alone. She brought one dagger into her hand, just to be safe.

The coast was clear when she reached the upper landing, the corridor here open and painted slivers of the sunlight bursting through the blinds. The floors were a hardwood polished by the tramping of feet rather than a stain or varnish, and the walls were of a glowing golden wood of a similar sheen that had tight and distinctive striping in the grain. It smelled of cyprus and old sweat and almost reminded the pirate of the inside of a ship.

She made her way to the back, to the room she had been told would be the office. The door was closed, but a cursory examination (no sound from the other side, no lock to worry about) gave her the courage to press on. She had to. Being caught in this building was one thing. Being caught here as a _woman_ was another. But the worst scenario would be to get caught here as a woman without a shred of proof for Taarbas.

The latch lifted easily and the door swung open. A simple wooden desk was there, surrounded by scroll shelves along two walls and an empty armor stand on another. On the wall immediately behind the curved and backless seat was a wall rack for a pair of weapons. It was empty, also. There were two windows in the whole space on the rear perpendicular walls, both only blocked with the bamboo blinds. Escape routes noted. Time to get to work.

The trouble was that she didn't know exactly where to begin. If Taarbas wasn't in the annals, was he anywhere? If a person could be erased from the records, could an entire event be as well? Isabela stepped lightly over to the scroll shelves and squinted to make out the tight handwriting on the subject ribbons. Battles. Body counts. Weapons inventory. Apparently, the Arishok was expected to be responsible with chronicling his exploits. A duty which, apparently, also expected him to be honest. Isabela snorted derisively. There were rats on every ship.

She moved to the desk when she had no luck with the shelves. Papers were stacked in neat piles, but it looked to all be more of the same. They were all records in progress from the looks of it, commendations to warriors that had served well, requests to _tamassrans_ to receive others with particular traits. Isabela frowned. She remembered something Taarbas had mentioned. The Arishok had once been Vashkata, the same rank she was being assigned. No rogue worth his salt would leave incriminating evidence in the open.

But where was there to hide it? The desk had no drawers, the shelves no secret panels. The armor stand was a simple crossbar of wood, and the weapon display-

The weapon display had a wood grain that didn't line up. And she never would have noticed had she not been so vehement on finding answers. Part of the front between the metal hooks was a panel that slid up and out, revealing a small compartment containing two things: a wooden amulet carved with an elven design (ironbark, most likely, and tingling with magic), and a flattened roll of parchment stamped with a glossy waxen seal of the Tevinter Imperium.

Deftly, she pilfered both items, shoving the amulet into the waistband of her trousers and holding the edge of the seal in a beam of sunlight until the heat popped the adhesive free. The text was the fluid language of the Imperium, but she had been around long enough to know how to skip over the boring bits. It was some sort of agreement, trade or otherwise. She glanced through most of the excessive verbosity and took in only enough to realize that this could more than bring down an Arishok. Her free hand slowly reached up to cover her gaping mouth with the growing horror.

Kont-Aar had been traded for Seheron, the colony virtually handed over to the magisters simply so:

_...trade with northern Rivain must be allowed, especially the settlement of Seere. In return for this act of good faith by opening up a passage between Par Vollen and the mainland, the foreign mages shall be removed from the region and taken into our most Blessed Imperium. Cessation of hostilities shall then continue even after this task is done, for there is nothing more important to the well-being of both our nations. This decision has been blessed and ratified by the Divine on this day..._

Isabela had to bite her lip to keep from destroying the paper. She'd never read a more foul pile of bull's shit in all her life, especially one that stank so highly of empty promises. She fumed as she rerolled and resealed the document with the same beam of sunlight, doing everything she could to control her breathing. Kont-Aar had been sacrificed for the sake of slavers, slavers no doubt after the elusive witches of Rivain. The pirate remembered Adda and felt herself sicken at the concept of such magics in the hands of twisted, bloodthirsty magisters.

The murmur of voices she had heard earlier suddenly grew louder, as if someone had stepped into the hallway, and then suddenly halted altogether. Her eyes shot to the door. It was slightly ajar and, through it, she could see the forms of two kossith warriors blinking at her in surprise.

"Oh, bollocks," she cursed, shoving the letter into the wrappings of her bodice as she dove for the window.

There was a shout and a clatter behind her as the soldiers followed, pursuing her out the back and along the causeway that wasn't as crowded as she had hoped it would be. Desperate, Isabela leaped onto one of the rooftops below, rolling to break her fall then continuing precariously forward on the sloping incline of smooth slate.

More soldiers tracked her from below, penning her in on both sides, which was perfectly fine...until she ran out of roof. Another leap, another rolling landing. She couldn't keep this up. She was too exposed and the route too clumsy. After a handful of longhouses, she made a dive for a side-street tarpaulin and let it break her fall to the ground. The crowd was thicker here, but that barely helped. As would be expected, the military quarter was crawling with soldiers and, by now, almost all of them were on the alert.

She dashed down a narrow alley, hoping it dumped out somewhere useful—and ran headlong into the heavily muscled and leather-strapped chest of a Sten on patrol. He quickly grabbed her by the hair at the base of her head and lifted her with one hand. The pain was immense and canceled almost any ability to fight back. Not that she had the chance. In a breath, she was tossed over his shoulder and carried back the way she had come, soldiers approaching and shouting out what little they knew of her crime.

Her only view was behind where soldiers formed ranks to keep her surrounded as they marched to whatever served for the holding cells. Between their shoulders, she thought she caught a glimpse of Varric, his face colorless for fear, just before he vanished into the growing throng.


	53. The Thief and the Honor-Bound

The Festival of Tides was in full swing by mid-afternoon. Every square in Qunandar was crammed full of tables and benches. Pillars and porticoes were strung with paper lanterns and wrapped in tendrils of ivy woven with blooming hibiscus. Rose petals in every shade of red imaginable had been plucked and crushed and spread over the ground, filling the air with a heady scent, and every urn within reach was stuffed full with other flowers that had pleasing aromas of their own. It was possible to get drunk of the smell alone, Taarbas decided, but he was no fool. That was the whole point. The _tamassrans_ , after centuries of organizing this event, had everything down to a precise science. It wasn't just a matter of mingling people of desired or qualifying traits in the same space and expecting something to happen. There was always a certain amount of calculated prodding.

Hundreds if not thousands of Qunari milled about, drinking freely of the rare wine served them, chatting casually about work or the weather or the scant news of matters abroad. Taarbas kept to the seat he'd managed to snag and nursed a cup of plain water. At one point, he'd caught a glimpse of Marian and Asari descending the steps of the _viddathlok_ to find seats of their own. He felt his face flush to his ears at the memory of his moment of weakness the night before, a moment he still yearned to savor again. After she had gone, however, he had prayed for hours to restore clarity, to seek balance in the wisdom honed into him. That didn't change how beautiful she looked in her gown of pale green with her abundant red hair flowing in loose curls down her back and over her shoulders. But there was no room for such thoughts as much as he wanted to entertain them. Not here. Not now. Not even at the Festival of Tides.

His chest burned with anticipation, his mind running faster than it probably ever had. Varric and Isabela had done what he asked of them, but the dwarf had come with distressing news. The woman had been captured, taken, and not even her assigned Ben-Hassrath had information to share. If she had found any evidence, it had gone with her and had most likely been confiscated. Worse, if any recognized her for who she was, only capital punishment would suffice.

He glared into his cup, staring at his own reflection like he hated the sight of it. He would have to continue on, regardless. Proof or no proof, this injustice could not stand. He couldn't allow it. The Qun _wouldn't_ allow it, and if the Ariqun was already suspicious as he surmised, it might cushion the blow of punishment he received in return.

Across the square, battle drums beat out a cadence that started out hard and steady but soon quickened and layered upon itself, echoing off the buildings around. A cheer rose from the crowd as the people, some already inebriated, burst into dance. Women of all races were dressed to accentuate curves and other endowments, their dance designed to do the same. The men performed more of a _hoquun_ , displaying their finest physical qualities in kind. Normally, the situation would have been more controlled, the gatherings smaller and more intimate, but the population issue had not been so dire since the last Exalted March against them. Every rank had vacancies, every trait was considered desirable for this new generation. So long as human stayed with human, elf with elf, and kossith with kossith, there was no cause for alarm.

Taarbas drained his water and wondered how well that plan would actually work out. There was already a kossith tanner dancing not far from him with a waif of an elven female. If it came down to a coupling, she'd be dead by childbirth. But he was a warrior. What did he truly know of such things.

After several minutes, the revelry was interrupted by a loud blaring of horns. The crowd stopped and turned, silent for a brief moment before bursting into a deafening roar of cheering. The Triumvirate were dressed in their most brilliant crimson garb and descending to a table set before the _viddathlok_ steps just for them. Taarbas couldn't help but eye up his rival, this first chance at glimpsing him in three years. Little had changed. His frame had bulked up a bit but was still almost too small for a proper soldier's armor. He had been bred for speed and dexterity—not for brute force and strength. His horns had grown more grand and hair glossy, his hands large and suited for the two long swords strapped to his back. His new _asala_. The soul of an Arishok rather than a Vashkata. The one relief Taarbas felt was that Sataareth was not either of those weapons. At least one memory remained untainted.

The Triumvirate did not even get a chance to sit down before a contingent of soldiers pushed their way through the crowd. There was a rumble of confusion, sudden whisperings and people standing on their toes or on benches and tables to get a view of what was happening. Taarbas, too, found the need to rise, picking himself up just enough to see over the heads of those in front of him, to see the pathetically small form of Isabela be shoved forward between two ranks of kossith warriors, her hands bound behind her. The Arishok immediately boomed that everyone should be seated. The festivities would have to suffer this minor interruption.

"And what is this?" the Arishok mused loudly as he came around the table to stand before the prisoner and her retainers. He eyed Isabela up strangely, as if he thought he should know her but didn't. Taarbas hoped that his rival's memory wasn't half as good as his own.

"This _viddathari_ was caught in your office, Arishok," a Sten responded almost mechanically. "It was presumed she was stealing, and this item was found on her person." He handed over a small object that was indistinguishable due to the distance. Many were straining to see, even more to hear. Taarbas was grateful that he could manage both. Fate was favoring him this day.

The Arishok blanched at the sight of the small object, his eyes wavering from it to Isabela and back again. His lips trembled as if from rage, but he did not speak. He inhaled several deep breaths before he even dared to open his mouth. Wise...but passion was a cruel master, no matter the form it took.

"Followers of the Way," he boomed when he had regained control of himself, "it is a thing we take for granted, that all Qunari are worthy of trust and respect until proven otherwise. But it is also true, that we must be wary of strangers...especially of those that come from far away, from poisoned foreign lands with not a wit to hold between them." He looked back to Isabela, a sly smirk playing across his angled features as that dreaded recognition glinted in his eyes. "This female has already stolen from the Qun once before, taking our most precious thing and hiding it away for her own selfish desires. And, here, she has come among us, to be one of us, and we have welcomed her with open arms. And how is this gracious forgiveness repaid? With further theft!" He turned and tossed the small thing in his hands for the Ariqun and Arigena to inspect.

"She shall be granted a trial," the Ariqun announced after a brief minute. "This...trinket you claim to be stolen is immaterial, Arishok, but still a theft." She stood to raise herself higher and make her voice heard by more of the crowd. "Are there any here that can speak for the actions of this accused Vashkata? This woman Rivaini-born and taught to live upon the sea?"

Taarbas moved forward before Marian could think to react—so he hoped, at least—and pushed his way through the throng. "I am able to speak for the accused, Ariqun."

The smirk on the Arishok's face vanished in a heartbeat as he saw him approach, his silver face dulling to an ashen gray. Hands balled into fists, violet eyes raged a crimson red around the edges. Taarbas did not allow himself to feel even the smallest sense of satisfaction in that. He couldn't afford to be distracted.

"Taarbas," the Ariqun acknowledged, nodding and gesturing to Isabela. "You are free to speak."

"I will be candid, Ariqun. This woman was working for me. Punish her for her actions if you must, and likewise punish me. But I must ask one thing before you do."

The Ariqun nodded again, more shallowly this time as her face took on a bemused expression.

Taarbas took the opportunity and turned to Isabela. "What did you really take, Vashkata, that has so wronged the Arishok?"

The look Isabela gave him was a dangerous mixture of fear, anger, and some strange bit of amusement. Gulping at least half of that down, she winked and moved one shoulder, moving her head at the same time. Taarbas had no idea how to translate her response and posed the question again, this time insisting she say whatever she needed to. Some part of him was beginning to doubt, to worry, and he pressed his own shoulders back to feel the cold metal of Marian's shield and the stiff hardwood of his bladed staff.

Something in the pirate snapped. It was visible...and audible, her body suddenly shaking with a peal of musical laughter. "Your Arishok has not been a very good boy, Ariqun," she said in a playful tone that was almost frightening to hear. "He won Seheron for you, but sacrificed Kont-Aar to the Imperium to get it. He _knowingly_ did this, and I have the-"

"She _lies_ , Ariqun," the Arishok boomed, bursting forward to stand immediately before the table. "And you would trust this...this _Nameless_ to speak for her? This mocks us, Ariqun. It insults all Qunari to allow this to continue! Punish her! Punish her, now, for this theft _and_ that of the Tome of Koslun!"

While in the throes of his outburst, the Arishok did not see Isabela wink to Taarbas again, mouthing to him, this time, where she had stashed this much-needed evidence, that thing that would hopefully save his life and hers, both. It was with great hesitation that he reached two fingers into her bodice and pulled forth the sealed letter from the Tevinter Imperium. The soldiers directly behind him saw and gaped and did not stop him as he broke the letter open and read from its tilting script over-accented with flourishes. He read aloud, clearly, enunciating every syllable as he translated directly to Qunlat. He watched the Arishok carefully, taking in even his stillness as a reaction, noting his bearing, the veins in his hands, the spacing of his feet upon the ground. When he had finished reading, there was utter silence in the plaza, the crowd gaping and in shock that their kin had been sold unto death like the unfortunates in Rivain would be sold into slavery. All for control of an island, an island they had waited years to possess and would have waited still more, knowing that it would come to them with time.

The Arishok slowly turned, the look in his eyes dangerous, a sharp edge to his voice. "And is that all you present, Nameless? It is a horrifying story to those who would believe you, but it could only be that you and this thief planted that document or even betrayed us to the Imperium yourselves. How long did you report you have been abroad? Three years? That is plenty enough time to sell your brothers for a few worthless sovereigns."

"That is not the only evidence I present, Ariqun," Taarbas continued, refusing to back down and handing her the letter complete with blood-red seal. "I also present myself."

"Yourself!" the Arishok exclaimed, feigning laughter. " _You_ are evidence? Of what?"

Taarbas turned and regarded him flatly. "I am Taarbas. I am the lie you told our brothers and sisters before you even faced Tevinter. I am your brother in the barracks and your comrade in the army. I am the Kithshok you murdered, and I am the past you hoped would die."

"You are the liar and traitor, Taar- _bas_ ," the Arishok spat, flinging that final syllable like a poisoned dagger. He reached behind him and drew forth his swords, the soldiers immediately backing away and dragging Isabela with them. "And as you insist on corrupting those around you, you force my hand. Qunari! _Tal-shok_!"

At the word, not even the Ariqun could interject. Taarbas laid hand to his staff and moved with his opponent as the Arishok began to circle. Passion runs hot in those untempered, and the military commander was the first to make his move. He spun in quickly, confident, a small smile on his face that hinted at some morbid pleasure Taarbas was fairly certain he knew the reason for. It was the word of one of the Triumvirate against a nameless, the skill of a seasoned warrior against a weapon gatherer. The flurry of blows jarred his arms as swords connected with staff, but he met his opponent move for move, feint and parry.

He still fought like Vashkata, rapid and precise, jabbing forward like he wielded daggers rather than swords, and any sweeping attacks were meant to eviscerate rather than cleave. It also made him leave few openings that Taarbas could exploit, and even with a staff, he couldn't trip him or catch him off balance. The crowd was pushed back still further as each began to use the environment to his advantage, standing up on benches or leaping down from the tabletops. Taarbas got lucky once, vaulting off the butt of his staff to kick out at his opponent, knocking the Arishok back a few steps and forcing him to catch his breath.

It wasn't enough of an opening, and all it succeeded at was angering the commander even more. With a shout, the Arishok spun in again, slashing down and out quickly and making Taarbas work for every block. It was a tactic, a ploy. He above all others knew the exile's weakness, and he must have hoped it could be exploited through sheer exertion. When waiting him out didn't work, he moved again—too quickly for Taarbas to recover from a deep lunge with his staff. But instead of stabbing out with the shorter of his two swords, the Arishok turned it in his hand and jabbed with two of his fingers out and up, deep into the scarred flesh between two of Taarbas' ribs.

Taarbas found that he couldn't breathe. Bile filled the back of his throat and he barely had the time to react before the Arishok's boot connected with his gut as his swords came down at once to knock the staff from his hands. He went flying backwards, landing face-down in the crushed rose petals as the world around him became little more than white noise. Through a haze, he saw Isabela break free of her captors and charge forward, the Arishok kicking her back as well. He couldn't see, but Marian's voice seemed to carry over the din of the crowd, his name repeated over and over. No...not his name...the rank forced upon him.

Air simply wouldn't come in anything but gasps and wheezes. The Arishok was stepping closer, his voice saying something in low tones but it was unintelligible through all this...this chaos. His mind, he couldn't think, couldn't reason. He needed to breathe! His weapon was gone, and the rules carried that he would have to do without or die. Fighting for precious air as he was, he found himself falling into a spiral of hopelessness. Closer. Closer. The boots in the blood-red petals were agonizingly slow in their approach, the inevitable death blow taking too long in its delivery.

_Remember who you are, Qunari._

Asari's voice came unbidden from somewhere in the mental maelstrom. Her smile. Her touch on his scar.

 _You are more than this_.

Marian. Her copper hair in the sunlight, the smell of it when he'd held her. That look of purest contentment when she gave him her shield in exchange for his crimson sash. Her shield. The metal was hot against his back as it absorbed the heat of the sun.

The Arishok stepped closer.

Coughing and still fighting for air, Taarbas forced his hands beneath him, pushing himself to his knees. The Arishok halted, his stance casual as he watched his opponent struggle, his face aglow like this was some secret joke between them.

"You have nothing, Qunari," he said, his voice little more than a murmur. "You have no soul, no rank, and no weapon. Accept your fate, and there might be some hope of honor granted you in death."

Taarbas made it the rest of the way to his feet, shrugging the heavy metal of the Amell shield onto his left arm. He turned to regard the Arishok even as his breath came in shallow, rattling gasps. "My soul you see before you," he returned, his voice hoarse but functional. "My rank you bestowed yourself. And you are a fool to think me without a weapon." And, inhaling the deepest breath he could, he charged forward, bashing the Arishok across his smirking face with the shield, spinning and ramming it into his stomach before turning one last time and bringing the pointed edge of the bottom down as hard as he could into the crook of the stunned warrior's elbow.

He felt the metal bite deep into flesh and sinew, smelled the blood and heard the bone crack. The Arishok howled in pain, and the sword dropped from that hand to hit the stone with the ring of steel. Drawing another breath, Taarbas reflected on everything he learned from watching Marian. There was something she had done, a move with sword and shield that left no defense open and gave the opponent no time to counter. He had no sword, but he held that same shield. And the claws of his right hand would suffice. His opponent still reeling, he moved. He rose up on the balls of his feet, coming in again in a sort of spin that brought the edge of the shield slicing through the Arishok's abdomen, his claws swiping across his face, and the shield back again to bash the _vashedan_ fool in a shattering blow to the jaw. And he kept it up. His own rage was taking hold, keeping him going where air could not, as he mercilessly laid into his opponent with the bottled fury of one betrayed.

At last, the Arishok fell to the assault, his face bloodied and his arm useless. His other hand clutched at his stomach to try to staunch the bleeding there even as he glared defiantly upward.

"Finish it," he slurred, his broken jaw nearly failing him. "Take your honor with my life."

It was spoken like a challenge or a threat. Taarbas stared down at him, his boot planting his former brother-in-arms to the ground. His chest rattled with his ragged breathing, his ruined lung filling with fluid. His eyes met those of the Arishok, diving inward to try to glimpse the threads of his inner spirit. All he found was anger. All he felt was loathing.

"You are not worth dying to me," he replied, shoving himself away from the fallen Arishok with what strength was left in him. He turned to regard the Ariqun, his body wavering from weariness, but he walked toward her all the same. His head was held high, his shoulders set. He would accept his fate as she dictated. The crowd was deathly silent.

"Taarbas!"

Isabela's voice cut through the air like a freshly forged blade. Turning was awkward, but Taarbas managed, blinking away the stars beginning to clutter his vision. The Arishok had gotten to his feet and retrieved one of his fallen weapons. A moment later, he was charging forth, screaming out a war cry that was barely intelligible.

Adrenaline surged forth and gave him enough strength to defend himself. The Arishok's sword beat down harmlessly on the shield as Taarbas stepped out and around, turning and bringing the shield down one last time on his opponent's exposed back. There was another cracking sound, a gurgle, and Taarbas jerked the shield free as the other fell limply to the ground, his spine severed.

He didn't hear the crowd's reaction, didn't hear or see the soldiers move forward to inspect the scene. He merely collapsed to the ground, himself, landing face to face with the glassy stare of the only true enemy he had ever known. His comrade. His brother. Gentle hands were suddenly on his arms, his back, tugging and pulling until he was rolled over. Everything was so bright, a whiteness blinding him from somewhere above. But he saw her face. Marian crouched beside him with Asari beside her. Both were worried, but Marian was absolutely frantic. He felt himself smile.

"Do not...worry, _kadan_ ," he breathed, somehow finding the strength to reach up and caress her face. There were tears there. "You...are my true soul."

And there was nothing more.


	54. Aftermath

All of Qunandar was in uproar. The Festival of Tides was postponed pending investigation of recent events, and rumor spread like hurricane winds that the body that once was the Arishok would be disposed of without honors. The entire army found itself at the mercy of the _tamassrans_ , posed with such questions that even the ranking Stens and Kithshoks were at a loss for answers.

Tevinter suddenly felt like more of a threat than it ever had. Few had been left behind to guard Seheron. Aqunarans were summoned from the blockade to answer for anything they had seen or heard. Darkspawn still crawled about the silent ruin of Kont-Aar.

And there was no Arishok.

Marian sat on a couch across from the Ariqun, Asari on one side and Isabela on the other. The three of them had been served tea, steaming and smelling of cinnamon and sweet spices. Isabela drank hers like she wished it were rum. The duel had been days ago, and the pirate was still visibly worried as if she waited for the inevitable judgment due her. But the Ariqun's face was kindly, and she maintained a casual conversation with Asari until a golden-girdled Tamassran entered the room, presented a sheaf of parchment scrawled with writing, and promptly left.

Isabela's gulp of tea seemed to echo in the sudden silence.

The Ariqun looked up at her over the papers. "Peace, child. There is nothing to be frightened of."

"But I was accu-"

"There is nothing the Arishok said that we didn't already know about you. You even told us yourself when you first arrived." She turned her eyes back to the report. "And the truly guilty would never have willingly come here to our lands. Your honor among us is established."

Marian reached over and gently squeezed her friend's hand. Isabela reacted in kind, though her grip was of iron and tight as a vice.

It was another several minutes before the Ariqun spoke again. She simply read the report given her, her face scowling in concentration as her lips moved slightly with the words. Marian sipped at her tea and stared down at her lap. She was once more comfortably dressed in her Ben-Hassrath uniform, the woven fabric soft against her skin. Her hair was tightly bound in its bun, her feet in snug leather boots. Feeling distinctly not-feminine never felt so good.

The past few days had been long and trying. All the Kirkwallers had found themselves under Ben-Hassrath questioning, but it had been graciously short and painless. _Qamek_ in small doses made a significant difference. The trouble had come with Taarbas. The truth smoke did not affect kossith, and divulging answers from a nameless exile was a questionable business. Marian did not know what came of that. Asari, however, had made a point to mention that he was alive.

"One hundred and forty-three warriors sold their honor to Tevinter to complete this...arrangement regarding Rivain." The Ariqun looked up, locking eyes with Marian. "I ask you not as Ben-Hassrath but as Serah Hawke, Arigena of Kirkwall. What would you do in my position? The army is not mine to command, but still I must do this."

Marian's brow furrowed as she thought, an index finger idly tracing the rim of her ceramic teacup. "My answer would be little different if you had asked Ben-Hassrath. They committed treason against the people and must atone or die."

"An Arishok would have chosen death," the venerable kossith replied, "but I am no Arishok—neither are you—and we can afford to waste nothing." After a moment's pause, she set the report aside. "I must give this more thought. Thank you, Ben-Hassrath, for your wisdom. But that is not all. There is much happening within the Body of the Qun, and they are leaderless. The Kithshoks have spoken for their units. I...do not envy you the role you must now accept." She rose to her feet, and two elven women materialized from the shadows. They began to clean the space, taking away the dirty dishes and opening the doors. "Asari, I must speak with you more on this child you brought to us. That will be all Ben-Hassrath. Vashkata. The two of you should go to the barracks." She picked up the sheaf of parchment. "Sooner rather than later. Your brother will need you."

Isabela was out the door before Marian could even stand. It wasn't the task that urged her so much as simply getting out of the room, of getting out of the windowless _viddathlok_. Marian didn't question, merely caught up and walked beside her friend. Her sister, for all that it meant. They were silent for a long while, each digesting her own mental load.

"I'm...sorry," the pirate said at last. "We haven't had much of a chance to talk lately. I've been wanting to tell you all about the plan we had and how it went so wrong. But there's really no point in dwelling on it. I'm just...sorry that it all worked out as it did."

Marian attempted to console her with a small smile. "Did it least end the way that had been intended?"

"I honestly couldn't tell you. He asked us to find proof. We found proof. Dishonor was clearly an intention, but I don't think killing the Arishok—again—was actually the ultimate goal. All Taarbas wanted was to have his honor restored, to be a proper Qunari again." She bit at her lip. "There wasn't supposed to be any blood."

The Champion wrapped an arm about the other's shoulders and held her close as they approached the barracks and training grounds. As many _ben-hassrath_ moved about as soldiers, and conversations were carried on in hushed tones if any dared speak at all. Marian had expected wary glances or menacing stares. Instead, she received sympathetic glances and the deep nods of respect. One soldier halted them at the doorway.

"You are Ben-Hassrath?"

"Yes."

"She who was once Serah Hawke of Kirkwall?"

"Unfortunately."

The soldier nodded. "I am Kithshok. You must come with me."

He turned without another word, walking through the gate of the training grounds and across the field of golden sand. At the far wall was a doorway and a flight of stairs, leading up into a building of pale granite. The odor of old sweat was everywhere, but as they climbed, something else became more apparent. The was the tang of lyrium. The scent of dried herbs. Long rooms branched off the corridor that were lined with beds, some occupied by those apparently wounded in battle. The infirmary? A strange place for one, given as all the physicians Marian knew of were housed in the _viddathlok_ and surrounding grounds.

Kithshok eventually stopped at one particular doorway, taking up post just outside and not even gesturing for the women to enter or even nodding at them or acknowledging their continued existence in any way. Refusing to be deterred, Marian took a step into the doorway and lightly rapped at the frame.

A human male no older than her brother when she'd last seen him quickly turned from where he was, bent over a low cot with another wounded laid upon it. The man's eyes were brown and warm, his hair a sandy blond, and with the blue robes of _asari_ , Marian felt her breath catch.

But it was not Anders.

"I was wondering when you would arrive," he said to her, taking up a white linen towl and wiping his hands with it. He jerked his head toward the bed. "He's been asking about you. Repeatedly. Most often in his sleep." The _asari_ turned to regard the prone form of Taarbas on the bed. "He is resting, now, but I assure you that his health is stable. The problem was an old war wound by the looks of it, but he's in surprisingly good shape considering. Well...he's kossith. I don't think they know how to be anything _but_ in good shape." He chuckled awkwardly as if that had been his attempt at a joke. "Anyway. I should let you go about your business." Nodding to each of them quickly, he strode from the room.

Isabela went to the door to make sure he left while Marian took a seat upon a low stool near the bed. Not long ago, it had been her lying similarly, her own body recovering, her friends not understanding the depth of her pain. The physical wound had always been nothing in comparison to the things her mind would dredge up from the wreckage of her life. Sitting there, gazing at Taarbas' sleeping face, his features tight as if with nightmare, she couldn't help but _know_. All this time, they had been two souls in a never-ending storm. And all they had was each other. She reached out and gently clasped his hand in both of hers.

His eyes flew open at the touch, focusing first on the ceiling above him before turning ever so slightly to land on her face. There was no expression at first, no acknowledgment or greeting. Just a simple stare. And it didn't even bother to scratch the surface. But he smiled after a time, and his fingers curled to return her comforting gesture.

" _Kadan_ ," his voice was softer than usual, weary, "my heart is glad to see that you are safe."

She smiled back at him, her own heart full to bursting. "As is mine. Did you succeed?"

Taarbas nodded a single time, strength appearing to return to him with every passing breath. "I did what I came here to do. It is done."

"And what happens, now?"

"I rest. And, in the morning, we go to the Ariqun. Only she can restore my honor." He squeezed her hand again, more urgently this time. "You must be there with me, _kadan_. We are so bound."

"My duty is clear," Marian replied. "And I wouldn't miss it for the world. Although...I really must ask. What was all that about? Everyone seems to know but me, and no one is saying anything _useful_."

Isabela chuckled lowly from across the room. "Oh, Hawke. I _did_ tell you. But, if it pleases you, I guess we'd better start at the beginning. And where was that, Taarbas? Some three years ago back in Kirkwall?"

And so the story came out. Isabela told it this time, her calm returning first and soon followed by her wit and mirth. The more she talked of Vashkata and his betrayal, of Taarbas' ordeals in Kirkwall and abroad, the more she sounded convinced that they had, indeed, done the right thing in risking everything to prove the Arishok's guilt.

"But that's what I still don't understand," she finished, ceasing her pacing and wild gesticulations as she came to the bedside herself. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at Taarbas questioningly. "I mean, what were his motives? All I know is that—while you were lying there on the ground practically drowning on your own breath—he just grins so _wickedly_ and says, 'You were always so much like _him_. So astute...so patient...so trusting. Too patient. Too passive. The Qunari must be made strong again. We can't do that through waiting.' ...What does that even mean? Who was too patient and passive?"

Taarbas grinned up at her with irony. "The Arishok."

Isabela scoffed. "You mean the rudding blighter that razed Kirkwall over that bloody book?" She was so animated, she was totally forgetting to bother speaking in Qunlat. Or mind her manners. Or even think about where she was.

"He waited for years for one to return what was stolen. He could have stormed your city then, even as our ships were dashed on the rocks...but he waited. He gave your people a chance to be something other than what he expected. And, for that, the impetuous found him lacking."

"I'm..." the pirate gulped and caught her breath. "I'm sorry."

Taarbas shook his head and returned his gaze to Marian. "Don't be. His life was not wasted. And he found the ultimate glory in death." His head rolled back into position on the neck rest, that curious contraption that allowed kossith to recline without having to worry about their horns being in the way. "Now, leave me to rest—even you, _kadan_. In the days that come, much must happen. And we must all be rested. And ready."


	55. Arishok

The grand causeway was absolutely filled with bodies. Qunari of all races were packed in between the buildings and even along rooftops, shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to ribcage, all ranks and castes were intermingled in front of the _viddathlok_ steps. The sun was hot and high overhead, beating down on thousands of heads all tilted up toward the highest tier of the pyramid. They had heard the rumor and later the announcement. The Arishok had been accused of treason—of betraying the Qun to the Tevinter filth—and had been killed by a hero returned from the dead.

That hero was not only due a crown of laurels. The entire _antaam_ had declared him Arishok. Now, as all of Qunandar watched and waited in anticipation, the Ariqun and Arigena stood on the steps of the _viddathlok_ , also turned and looking upward, waiting for the new leader of the Qunari military to emerge.

Marian waited with the rest of them. Isabela and Asari stood with her. Varric and Fenris were not far off. They were positioned on a platform near the Arigena with other witnesses of the duel and those that could speak for Taarbas' good character. It was a shockingly large group, filling both sides of that tier on either side of the stairway. Soldiers that had served under him in Seheron and Kirkwall and other places. _Qunra_ and venerable, retired warriors that had trained him, educated him, _tamassran_ that had raised him. Some of them bore pale yellow ribbons, tied to their arms or in their hair or otherwise displayed. Marian had asked what it meant, for she had been given one, too. It was a symbol, Asari had told her, of one forced to bear shame they didn't deserve.

She looked down the sloping granite to the causeway. The _antaam_ headed up the massive crowd. Ranks upon ranks of Qunari warriors in full battle dress stood at attention. Behind them was everyone else, stretching away so far that it was impossible that most could even see the specks of people on the _viddathlok_ steps let alone hear anything that was said. That wasn't the point, however. An important ceremony as this was not missed by anyone. The feasting that would come after was guaranteed.

A soldier in the ranks let loose a shout, beating his sword rhythmically upon his shield. Others quickly followed suit, sounding the same cadence with their weapons and voices. " _Ataash! Ataash!_ " Glory. Glory was his that was worthy to lead them. Gazes flew upward to the top of the steps, to the pillared chamber at the pyramid's peak. Taarbas stood there, fitted in the red leather pauldrons, the black leggings and boots, the blue leather chaps. His horns were ringed in bronze. His ears cuffed in the same gleaming metal. His shoulders were squared, his arms at his sides. He looked every inch the warrior he was born to be. But he was a warrior still without a weapon.

He descended the steps at a reserved pace, his eyes first taking in the expansive crowd. He might have been gaping. Marian couldn't tell from this distance. He lowered his face quickly, focusing on where he was going, on the two women waiting for him—the Ariqun with a crown of laurels and the Arigena with a long parcel of plain cloth balanced in her arms. As soon as he reached the platform with the others, he fell to his knees, his hands touching the sun-warmed stone as he bowed to touch his forehead to the ground between them. The Amell shield was still strapped to his back. Silence immediately fell over the crowd.

 _Abandon struggle and submit to the will of the Qun_.

"Rise, Qunari." The voice of the Ariqun was firm to carry as far as it could. Taarbas did as he was commanded, and the laurels were placed upon his brow between his horns. "Ours is the relentless tide in the changeless sea, but even we know troubled waters. Even in exile, your will was that of the Qun. You upheld its undeniable truths even as one of our brothers betrayed them. For your service, Qunari, you have been found worthy of Sataareth, the soul of he who razed the foreign city of Kirkwall."

The Ariqun gestured, and Taarbas turned his attention over to the Arigena, the small kossith woman bowing her head in respect as she held her bundle up to him. With an almost gentle reverence, Taarbas pushed back the cloth to reveal the shining blade, newly polished and sharpened. He grasped it by the hilt and raised it above his head and out over the crowd.

"Victory in the Qun!" he bellowed.

 _Defend the Qun in the face of adversity_.

The Arigena turned a little and motioned for Marian and Asari to step forward. Also Isabela and the others. The pirate looked more than a little afraid. It was bad enough that she was up here in front of thousands...maybe millions...and that debacle with the Tome of Koslun still haunted her in the back of her mind. Marian understood. To be double-crossed so many times was to lose all trust. But the Champion of Kirkwall held out her hand for Isabela to take. She did, and they stepped forward together, each giving strength to the other.

"But no Qunari should feel he need act alone." It was the Arigena's turn to speak. "It is through the bonds of our kinship in the Qun that we are strongest. It is our shared wisdom, our shared sense of justice, our shared understanding that we are not only able to endure but persevere. A capable leader knows to turn to his brothers and sisters for guidance." She nodded to another Qunari standing close by, a small elven woman who looked to be barely out of childhood. She wore the white robes of a _viddathari_ but the lavender drape of the Arigena's office. She held several wreaths of sweet-smelling white flowers. Marian recognized them. Andraste's Grace. An appropriate yet ironic thing to be crowned with as each companion bowed in turn to receive their honors.

_Embrace all Qunari as one's brothers and sisters in the Qun, regardless of race or origin._

"These same brothers and sisters that so aided this worthy Qunari began this journey as the unenlightened," the Arigena went on after the roar of cheering died down. "From the filth of corruption they crawled, aiding one that to them was a stranger. Through their trials, they have found and embraced their true purpose. Welcome them, brothers and sisters. Welcome them not only as worthy _viddathari_ but as Qunoran. Their efforts should be an example to others—even those of us born into the Qun."

The sound that came next was deafening. Arms pumped in the air and hands waved. Makeshift banners flew as people held sashes and other bits of cloth aloft, speckling the sea of bodies with even more color. Marian could hardly breathe. This was the first time in years... _years_...that she felt like she'd actually done the right thing, made all the right choices, and the response was nothing but positive. This was not the desperation of Ferelden. Neither was it the arm-twisting of Kirkwall. This was...something so wonderfully unfamiliar to her she could do nothing but stare and smile dumbly.

 _Spread knowledge of the Qun to those ignorant of its teachings_.

When the hush came again, the Ariqun's voice rang out once more. "And, thus, it is with beating hearts that we bestow this Qunari with the rank and title of Arishok, that he might lead our armies to victory, uphold our values in the face of adversity, and represent the will of the Qun in foreign lands. Aid him, brothers and sisters. It is with one Soul we feel, one Mind we understand, and one Body we act. One cannot function without the other—and we must never forget this. This, above all. Know your purpose. Perform your duty. Submit to the will of the Qun!"

 _Excel in your purpose that you might best serve all Qunari_.

The thunder of voices and clashing weapons and clapping hands shook the very ground. Marian couldn't hear herself think. Asari was hugging each of them in turn, bouncing excitedly down the line and saying _something_ but whatever it was was drowned out. Isabela, too, made a comment that never made it to Marian's ears. They were eventually all shuffled inside, back into the cool interior of the _viddathlok_ , blinking as their eyes adjusted to the light. The din died down quickly.

Varric was at Marian's side in an instant.

"So. Hawke." His voice was low, conspiratorial.

She didn't respond verbally, merely tilted her head and raised an eyebrow at him. She was still significantly overwhelmed by the whole experience that just happened.

"Refugee, Mercenary, Templar, Champion, Viscount...and now Kingmaker? That's quite the resume you're racking up."

"I promise I won't let it go to my head," Marian replied with a small smirk. "But an Arishok isn't a king, you know."

"I know that...and _you_ know that. But the general readership audience could care less about semantics."


	56. Fever Dream

It was high summer in Par Vollen. The Arishok was newly returned from battle, his armor over his shoulder. His step was light. The old scar no longer pained him. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with air heavy with the scents of earth and flowers and fresh green. His homestead lay just beyond, a house and grounds outside of Qunandar, its whitewashed walls gleaming. Athlok worked the fields and tended dathrasi. All smiled and nodded to him as he passed.

The one he wanted to see was in the doorway. Marian stood beneath the awning, her countenance aglow at his approach. Her hair was down, a thing she rarely did but that he loved so much. The copper locks flowed over her shoulders and framed her face. Her skin had taken on a golden hue from her time in the sun, which only enhanced the colors of her crimson and white sleeveless robes.

"Kana! Kana!" A tiny form pushed passed her and bolted toward the Arishok. Skin of silver, hair pale, his golden-eyed son rushed to leap into his waiting arms. His brow was smooth, and the Arishok swelled with pride every time he remembered that the boy would always be hornless. An asset. A boon. And his beloved Marian had been strong enough to bear him.

The woman came forward to kiss him, deep and passionate, full of the joy that he was home. She was so warm, her skin soft and hands no longer calloused from carrying a sword. There was no longer a need. She tasted of honey and spices. She smelled of incense and home.

And he _was_ home. Truly. Where he had wanted to be with every fiber of his being since Kirkwall.

"Tevinter fell in time for supper," she murmured, her breath a pleasing tickle against his skin. "Come. Inside before it gets cold." She took him by one hand, their son already occupying his other arm, and led him within. It was cool and smelled of herbs. The low table was already set, steaming bowls and plates of food upon it. They sat and partook, and never a better meal could he remember having in his life.

He turned to his son, the small boy barely old enough to learn to hold a stylus. "And what have the tamassrans taught you while I was away?" The _qunoa_ was absolutely amazing. Whatever combination of spices Marian used gave it the most perfect yet subtle flavor.

"The virtues of the Qun," came the smilingly bashful reply.

"Which are?"

The boy shrugged, still smiling.

"Oh, come, you know," Marian laughed. "You told me just this morning. Now, in thought...?"

"Wisdom!"

"In deed?" the Arishok put in. He remembered this adage from his own childhood.

"Courage!"

"In passion?" Marian spoke up, practically beaming at her offspring.

"Temp...temperance." It was a bigger word, hard to get out, but the Arishok suddenly felt ridiculously proud.

"And in duty?"

"Justice!" The boy threw both of his small hands up in the air as if in victory.

They had barely finished when there was a rapping at the door. The Arishok made to rise, but Marian put out a hand to stop him. "Peace, my love. I will get it." She got to her feet and moved to open the engraved wooden portal. There was a gasp. A scream. And before he knew what was going on, he saw Marian's body crumple to the ground.

Standing in the doorway was Vashkata, not as the travesty of an Arishok that he had once been but as his old self. His lithe and nimble form was strapped into woven leather armor, two deadly daggers gripped in his hands and dripping blood. Marian's blood. The child wailed. The Arishok felt his face tighten in anguish and rage. He saw Vashkata smile. It was a slow thing, cruel and wicked, and a look he felt scarred on his memory like the wound through his chest.

"Did you forget to invite me, brother?" the intruder asked, cleaning his blades nonchalantly on a drape from a nearby window. "Hearty food...your sweet wife...how could you ever think of not sharing?" He shoved the daggers home into the sheathes at his back.

The Arishok did not immediately respond. Not verbally, anyway. He leaped across the table to cradle Marian in his arms, her eyes open and unseeing, her body limp and lifeless. Tears burned tracks down his face as he wept, muffling his cries in the mess of Marian's hair. His son was crying, too. The child was screaming with all the meaning in the world thrust into the otherwise unintelligible noise.

" _...Shok ebasit hissra. Meraad astaarit-_ "

"Oh, stop it, brother. Your prayers can't help anyone, now." Vashkata's hands silenced the boy. Violently. The Arishok squeezed his eyes shut when he heard the strangled crunch of bone. "Have they ever? Has following the Qun given you any happiness?"

"It has given me every happiness," was the weak reply.

"Has it? And yet you cower, a _female_ in your arms—dead, I might add, through your own actions—a bastard son unsanctioned—also dead—and you a pathetic form crippled by his own selfish heart. I should kill _you_ , brother, if for nothing but to save you from what you've become."

The Arishok snarled, his tears of sorrow turning to ones of hate. "It was _your_ selfishness that left our people mired in the slime of Tevinter!" He laid Marian down and spun on his adversary, rage burning in his violet eyes. "You sacrificed thousands needlessly for the chance at a triumph!"

"I? Sacrifice?" Vashkata's laugh was cruel and chilling. "I sacrificed nothing that wasn't already lost. You are telling yourself lies to settle your conscience. Surely, you realize this. Cast off these chains, brother. They do not become you."

"What?"

"Rise above this. It was something that took me exile in the _bas_ -lands to understand, but I returned to Par Vollen with such clarity. Living in the Qun is an impossible dream. Let yourself be more that what it demands. More even than this..." he looked about him, sniffing derisively, "...pitiful desire."

"You _dare_ to call me pitiful?" Marian's voice was a shock, and the Arishok whirled to watch as she rose from the floor, her eyes burning with dark fire as her form melted away. Her skin became gray and stone-like, her head wreathed in lavender flame. The homestead around them melted away to leave behind a barren wasteland and putrid sky. "It was I who fed his passion. What have you done?"

Vashkata laughed aloud, his voice growing deeper, and the Arishok was slower to turn to watch his dead brother grow tall and broad, looming over him in a body of nothing but talons and teeth. "I fed him the truth, and he knows it with all that he is."

The Arishok clamped his hands to his ears, shutting his eyes, and trying to shake himself free of the nightmare surrounding him. Demons. Illusions. Such he'd thought left far behind in the ruin of Kirkwall. The beasts continued to argue between themselves, fighting with words as much as magic as they each attempted to restore their sway over him.

There was a hand on his shoulder.

A flash of light.

The stone woman screamed and the fanged beast fell, shattered in a splash of embers.

The whole world swam. The terrain spun and blurred and spiraled about him, dragging him down and down into a quagmire he could not hope to escape. The light dimmed and vanished, thrusting him into blackness even as the air around him thundered with noise. Roaring. Screaming. Something slammed shut, like a door, and all was silence. But that, too, was an illusion. There was a whispering, a tugging at the back of his mind. A chorus of low voices that echoed and repeated yet all said the same thing:

_Justice is returned._

The Arishok bolted upright. His breathing was fast and heavy. His body was dripping with sweat, and the light blankets of his bed were twisted and half on the floor. The sky over Qunandar was still black, the sun a long way from rising. How long he had slept, he didn't know and didn't care. Panic was gripping him, a cold fear that he had been touched by something worse than the blackest taint, and it twisted his stomach. He threw the covers from him and stormed from his bedchamber. Barefoot and in nothing but a pair of linen trousers, he fled the barracks, heading westward at a brisk walk through the cool winter air...then a jog...then a solid run...and then an all-out sprint as he reached the city limits and out into the open countryside beyond.

There was a place out here that he had often come with his Qunra and brothers and sisters in the _viddathlok_. It was a place that overlooked the sea that the woman felt would solidify better the lessons she had to teach them. "Serenity," she had said, her voice like a summer wind through the trees, "is the heart of the ocean. Be embraced by its depths, and you shall find peace." She was the first to have him believe that the ocean and the Qun were little different, if not one and the same. It had been her lessons that stuck with him through all the storms of his life, through the chaos and trials of Kirkwall, through his failings, and through his accomplishments.

He reached the spot, a clifftop meadow carpeted with tall grass and small white flowers that glowed in the light of the moon. It smelled as he remembered it...of the blossoms and sea spray. He could hear the rumble of the waves below as they crashed into the massive stones.

But he didn't stop.

He kept running, his lungs burning, his ruined one rattling as fluid threatened to fill it again. But he ran. He ran straight to the edge. And he leaped.

The water stung as he sliced into it, his outstretched arms cutting through the roiling surf. It was cold. Cleansing. The echoing voices vanished from his head, and all he heard was the muffled thunder of the sea. When he surfaced, the salty air felt like a sweet gift. His legs burned to tread water, but his arms compensated. He swam from the cliff face to a rock outcropping and back, forcing himself to work through the weariness and concentrate on nothing but his actions. His mind was put at ease through repetition.

But his heart would not be silent.

He let the current carry him to the docks, the waves tossing him ashore like so much flotsam, and he trudged through the sand to reach the wooden planking of the pier and the smooth stone of the promenade. The soldiers on watch glanced at him, but if they recognized him or thought his behavior strange, they made no motion. He merely nodded to them if their eyes met and moved on.

It was not far to the _viddathlok_ , and its massive edifice was alive with torchlight blazing beneath brightly painted murals. For all its visual splendor, it, too, was silent, and he approached it with soft, measured steps. The water should have tempered the fire in his spirit, but the images in his dream had disturbed him too much. Where the ocean failed, prayer and meditation would succeed. Barring that, he felt he was surely lost.

He paused at the threshold of the great hall. The doors were never shut, and incense floated into the air. Tamassrans were always present to guide the prayer or act as confessors, but the thought of being seen by any of them stopped him dead in his tracks. Instead, he made a turn down a branching corridor and wound his way through the many passages. He knew where he was going but refused to acknowledge it. To acknowledge it would be to give it power. To give it power would be to make it true. To make it true...

Doors in Qunandar could be closed but never locked. There were no locks, no keys, nothing to claim anything for one's own outside the prescribed _asala_. A room could be entered by anyone, used by anyone...but it did not change that certain aspects of privacy and personal space were respected. Marian slept peacefully on her cot, her hair spread over the pillow and arms clinging to the soft, woven blanket that covered her. Her armor had been carefully placed upon a rack. Basrath-Kata was sheathed and rested in the corner. There was naught else but a washbasin and a curious mabari blinking at him in the moonlight.

Swoop watched but made no sound as the Arishok approached his mistress' bedside. The kossith seated himself on the edge, the firm pallet barely giving way, and gently brushed hair behind the woman's ear. She inhaled a breath, stirred, but her eyes didn't quite open. He traced her lips with his thumb. Her breath was warm, tickled like in his dream, and his heart ached to remember it. That portion, though an illusion, had been a good dream.

He gently lifted her chin and pressed his mouth to hers. A kiss was not something that Qunari were familiar with—a thing long forgotten since Koslun's wisdom spread—but when Marian had wrapped herself up in him the other night, drawing herself so close they could have almost truly been one and the same, he had reveled in the feeling it gave him. He did not think he had truly woken her, but an arm snaked around his neck, fingers weaving into the dampness of his hair. She pulled him down against her so tightly that he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. His heart also raced, and it became difficult to discern one from the other. Her breath was his breath. His body was her body. One hand cradled her head as the other followed the curves of her form. Her own hand strayed, coursing down his back and-

The Arishok abruptly shoved himself away. Still sitting at the edge of the bed, he clutched his head between his knees, fingers clawing at his hair. " _No_...I will not. I _must_ not...!"

"Taa...Arishok?" Marian was upright, one hand holding her hair out of the way while the other tentatively came to rest on his strained back.

He straightened and cupped her face with both hands. "I will not lose you. Not to my folly and not to the _qamek_. I should not have come here." He made to rise but Marian's voice stopped him.

"Then why did you?"

Her eyes stared at him in the moonlight, silver gleaming in her hair as it hung around her shoulders as it had in his dream. The tousled strands framed her face. Her bare arms gleamed a faint bronze, providing contrast to the stark white of her shift. His heart pounded in his ears. His gut twisted.

"Because you are the Qun to me—my very soul. You are the ocean, my serenity. Without you, I am as nothing. Without you-" He faltered when she moved the blankets aside and came to stand with him. Her mouth was on his again before he could stop her, and the blood in his ears had become almost deafening. The vision of the life he'd been tempted with flashed across his eyelids, the homestead, the countryside, the child rushing to be held by his father.

He managed to pry himself away from her. "No. In passion: temperance. Remember this, _kadan_." He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her tightly to him. "For, if you don't, the ben-hassrath will ensure that you don't remember anything at all."


	57. Caught in Qunandar

_It was a blistering day in Qunandar. Hot. Balmy. Viddathari newly arrived from the south were finding out how...enlightening...the sun could be. But Torio Deluca had to admit that nothing could be hotter than the look the kossith female was giving him, now. The burning golden eyes. Her hand gripping his arm. The sway of her voluptuous hips as she strode beside him. Hot, indeed._

_The fact that she was Ben-Hassrath, angry, and dragging him to the viddathlok was irrelevant._

_This was the same Ben-Hassrath as always, as if she had been assigned to keep him—in particular—in line. The original human guide had been considered inadequately capable of resisting his roguish charms. Torio hadn't realized that flirting (and perhaps some other things Antivans considered necessary to daily survival) came with a prison sentence of several weeks._

_He'd seen that Ben-Hassrath since. She, curiously, didn't recognize him at all._

_This woman, gruff and white-haired, was no delicate flower that even Qunari women could be. Her shoulders were broad and toned. She wore her minimal armor like she was born to it. A long dagger was strapped to her hip, and he didn't dare wonder if she could use it. He knew she could. His ribs told him so...and his left kidney...and a particular spot near his groin he paled to even think about. Each time they met, she gave him the gift of a new scar. Today, he was not yet bleeding but growing more and more worried the deeper into the viddathlok they went._

" _Your grip is a little tight," he croaked at last, his voice echoing in the low, torchlit tunnel._

" _So that you cannot escape," came her smooth reply._

" _Amora, as if I would ever dream!" Bravado came more easily when he was afraid. It wasn't the most logical of responses, but it generally never failed him. "To be in your grasp is to bask in the light of heaven."_

_Her hand clenched. Her nails bit in. There was a warm tickle inside his elbow._

_So much for not bleeding._

" _You enjoy this too much," he muttered with a wince, clenching his teeth against the frustration and pain._

" _Perhaps, but that is none of your concern."_

_What happened next took him by surprise. He was whipped around and slammed face-first into the wall, Ben-Hassrath's body pressing against him, her mouth at his ear hissing such things as-_

"Kadan," Asari's voice broke through the inspiration. Varric barely kept his composure to keep his stylus from falling. "I have for you what you would call a Question that Burns." The way she said it made the uppercase feel necessary.

"A burning question, eh? What is it, Goldie?"

"What does it mean when someone's 'rippling pectorals blazed ferociously'?" She thrust something in his face, a book, her long golden finger jabbing at a printed line. Hard in Hightown. _Forever Hard_ , in fact. Donnen's last big break before he retired. He remembered writing something remarkably steamy involving the red-headed damsel in distress. That had Aveline up in arms.

Varric nearly choked, clapping the notebook in his hands shut before Asari could see the fledgling adventures of a lustful Antivan. "Well, this is awkward," he muttered with a gulp, blushing ferociously. It only felt appropriate. "Where...where did you find that book?"

"The same place as the others," she shrugged indifferently and took a seat beside him upon the stone garden bench. "I found the whole collection in the cargo unloaded from you _basra_ ship. Qunra wanted me to see if it was worth adding to the library. So," she casually adjusted her posture and held the book in his face again. "Rippling pectorals. Blazing. Ferociously. What does it even mean?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm still balking in shock and embarrassment that you read the whole thing. I thought the Qunari too...prudish for that."

"Prudish by choice to control instinct, but we are still _alive_. For example, I know exactly what you meant when this Donnen 'gratuitously ravished the voluptuous maiden with the need of a man long starved'-but this? Is his chest now on fire? Violently on fire? And ripples like disruption to a still pond? Even as metaphor, these words make no sense."

Varric smirked. "That's half the fun of fiction, Goldie. It doesn't have to make sense."

"But I still somehow understand...this idea." She scowled down at the book, her brows coming together at a vertical line above her nose.

"Exactly. Rippling pectorals blazing ferociously is not something that follows logic—like even Qunari poetry seems to—but that aims at pure imagery. Understanding the words at face value is not the point."

"So, if this is fiction, it is not actually true?"

"Also not at face value. Just as truth is not the same as fact, fiction is not the same as falsehood. Think of it like...the story is real, but the names were changed to protect the innocent."

"So, Donnen is not Donnen."

"Not as such, and you should have _seen_ some of the brawls that the Kirkwall guards got into, each hoping they were the inspiration." He laughed at the memory. He and Hawke and Isabela had even taken bets on who would figure it out first or even be the last man standing. To his knowledge, it was still an unclaimed pot.

"What are you writing now?" she asked, peering down at the notebook in his hands. It was a question borne of pure interest, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes. _Forever Hard_ found itself hugged to her chest like she was a young girl and it was her favorite bedtime story.

"Oh. Uh...the adventures of a hapless Antivan _viddathari_."

"Does he break hearts? Not physically. I mean metaphorically and with imagery. I hear Antivans are like that."

"Yes, Goldie. Yes, I'm afraid he does."

~~~*~~~*~~~*~~~

Marian awoke sometime in the mid-morning. Sunlight painted the floor in a dazzling light that her eyes could barely handle. She felt groggy, off. It was as if she hadn't properly slept, and she knew with gut-dropping certainty that the kossith in her room, all caresses and softness, had been anything but a dream. She tentatively licked at her lips. A hint of sea salt still lingered there.

She barely had a moment to savor it before the door burst open, a short elven girl with a cheery grin stood just outside. Held in her arms was a pile of folded fabric. The child with chestnut curls wasted no time bouncing into the room and pushing tangled blankets aside to set her bundle down.

"You've been summoned. I'm here to help you get dressed."

Marian blinked at her. "I've what? By whom?"

"The war council of kithshoks. I'm Eva."

"Eva? You...you have a name? That is no rank."

The girl nodded. "I've not been assigned, yet. My name is actually Fire-Haired Elvenborn With Flat Nose and Small Feet...but you can just call me Eva." She grinned brightly. "I hope to be Ben-Hassrath someday, but for now, I'm assigned to get you ready."

And she did. Marian was stripped of her shift and scrubbed down at the wash basin. There was no time to walk to the public baths. Not with something so important as this apparently looming. She was then dressed in a long dress of pure white cotton which was then covered by a sleeveless tunic of a bold crimson. Her waist was bound with the _taarbas_ sash and her hair brushed until it shone. It was not pulled up. Warriors, Eva chattered, never tied their hair or even cut it. It made them more intimidating in battle.

"But," Marian said with some difficulty, trying to keep an eye on what the other woman was doing, "I am no warrior."

"You are going to meet with the warriors. You are the soul-keeper of the Arishok, and must look the part. My instructions were clear: dress the Ben-Hassrath; have her wear this."

"Who gave the instructions?"

"Qunra. She made your dress! Now, go, go! You can't be late!" And the girl who couldn't have been any older than twelve pushed Marian out the door, both hands on the small of her back and arms completely extended. Her smile never left. Eva shuffled her the entire way across the bureaucratic quarter and to an open forum near the barracks. She stopped at the broad steps leading inside. "This is as far as I'm allowed to go. Cross the courtyard and go through the atrium. They're straight through there...really can't miss them." And with a jaunty wave, she dashed off into the crowd.

The pillars surrounding the courtyard were massive. The structures of smooth alabaster stone had the girth of the oldest of trees and were carved with simple vertical grooves for their entire lengths. The space was paved in a herringbone pattern of pale bricks, and blacksmiths and armor smiths had set up their wares along the perimeter. It was a veritable agora for the militant, and part of it—between the smell of freshly tanned leather and hot metal and the clang of hammer on iron—made Marian was nostalgic. It didn't remind her of Lothering or even Kirkwall. But it felt like the army camp at Ostagar, the barracks with Aveline, the Qunari Compound boxed in and stifling. And it felt like home.

The shade of the atrium brought with it a welcome coolness. There was a part of her that felt she would never grow used to how potent the sun was in this part of the world, but she found she could not really complain. There was a healthy tone to her skin for once instead of the usual almost sickly pallor. Her mood was certainly the better for it. But the heat. The unbelievable heat. It no longer surprised her that most males of any race, not just kossith, went about their day-to-day in nothing but a pair of trousers and boots or sandals.

That was pretty much what she saw when she entered the war room. It was a gathering of men, kossith and human, with arms crossed over their bare chests in the sunlight as it filtered through the trellised roof above, a tangle of ivy shading the large space. The dozen of them were crowded around a square area filled with sand, a long staff being used to draw tactical patterns. One of the men looked up and noticed her, nudging the one beside him. Soon, the murmur of voices died as they all turned to take her in, their expressions ranging from confused to disgusted to stunned. The one holding the staff was the last to see, his horns banded in bronze.

When the Arishok's eyes fell upon Marian, they bulged with horror. His mouth dropped open as if in total disbelief, and the woman suddenly felt like she was in the absolutely wrong place at the worst possible time.

"I'm...sorry," she announced hesitantly, trying desperately to keep the stammer of nervousness out of her voice. "I'm told I've been summoned?"

One of the kossith snapped his head to the Arishok. "We ask for Serah Hawke and get a _woman_? What idiocy is this?"

The Arishok shook his head as if to clear it of some troubling thought. "Not idiocy, my brother. Ben-Hassrath is known as Serah Hawke to the _basra_. You got exactly what you asked for."

"But a woman!"

"Would it make you feel better if I had brought you lunch?" Marian scowled and crossed her arms defiantly over her chest, the silver studs of her _asala_ bracers glinting. "Or how about I learn to knit and make you a sweater? I wouldn't want to be wasting anyone's precious time."

A smile broke out upon the Arishok's face at that, and he turned back to his pictures in the sand. "Ben-Hassrath may be female, Kithshok, but she is no woman. I'd wager a week's rations she could best you in single combat as she is now: unarmed and in a dress."

"She...she's the one who granted the Arishok his death of victory?"

A sage nod was the only reply.

"Perfect." The sarcasm wasn't missed by anyone. Especially Marian.

"Right, so if you're finished wasting _my_ time-"

"The Arigena told us of some strategy you suggested to the usurper," one of the humans piped up. He was an older man, gray around the edges with the full beard worthy of any proud Fereldan. "Something about dragons."

Marian dropped her arms to her sides and tilted her head almost in confusion. "I... Yes, what of it?"

"Even if the rest of his lot won't say it, I will. We think it could just be viable, even if all we have is the handful of docile ones currently used for transport. We need to take back Kont-Aar, and any effective weapon against the darkspawn will be necessary."

"Fire is extremely effective. Dragon's breath even moreso. Darkspawn both love and fear dragons, and even just the sight of them could cause the weaker-willed to flee."

"Weapon and diversion," the bearded Kithshok said with a veiled smile and nod. "I rather like the sound of that."

"But who will we get to guide them?" one of the kossith retorted, the tallest and most burly with hair tightly braided into small rows. "Those currently tasked are part of the home defense. We are restricted in numbers despite the direness of this mission."

"We have enough."

"Pardon me if I do not share your confidence, Arishok. We suffered heavy losses in Seheron and have no other source to draw upon."

The Arishok looked up to the venerable kossith at his left, a man covered in battle scars with a face weighed down by memories of many losses. "How many have fallen into disfavor?"

"Not quite two hundred. They are under lockdown until the Festival begins again and the games commence."

The other nodded and brought his staff back to lean against it. " _Kadan_ ," he called out, "approach, if you will."

Marian bit at her lip but smoothed her skirts and did as she was told. More than a few of the eyes upon her were still wary or incredulous. "How may I be of service, Arishok?"

"Remind me what you told Asari of the Grey Wardens."

"Which part?"

"That in which you explain how their ranks are replenished."

Her brow furrowed. "They are usually conscripted from amongst criminals and deserters, forced into a life of service that can only end in death upon the battlefield."

"That will do." The Arishok looked at each of the men gathered around the sand of the tactical map, meeting each gaze before moving on to the next. "Our ranks are much depleted since Kirkwall, worse with this recent business in Seheron before the truce. We can waste nothing. Not beasts. Not soldiers. I had the honor of meeting a contingent of warriors posted outside Kont-Aar, a _beresaad_ long forgotten by the usurper. They called themselves the Vashoth Stenok, the Grey Guardians, after these _basra_ warriors even we have come to revere. Their self-appointed purpose was to relinquish Kont-Aar of the darkspawn. I intend, brothers, to instate them as a proper military unit within the _antaam_. To do this, we will need the aid of one familiar with such practices."

He let out a shrill whistle through his teeth, and a small boy no older than seven came dashing out from an alcove, sweat plastering his ebon hair to his forehead. The Arishok's words were simple but the stillness that fell over the gathering of kithshoks that sent a chill down Marian's spine. Her heart fluttered in her chest, but she had the distinct feeling it was from anticipation rather than fear. Even she knew. She _knew_.

"Bring me Sten."


	58. Sten

The wait was not a long one. The boy bolted from the hall immediately and did not return. In his stead not ten minutes later strode in a tall figure with broad shoulders. His skin was deeply bronzed, his pale hair bound in small, tight braids. He appeared to have a permanent frown, and over his shoulder peeked the hilt of a massive greatsword. It took Marian a moment too long to recognize the hornless face. With a decade now between them, she had almost forgotten the creature from her sister's nightmares.

But this was no creature. He was Qunari, a kossith, a man. She was no longer the protective older sister. She was Qunari, a human, a woman (at least _she_ thought she was). And he was now her brother. Where Bethany would have let her mind be known, Marian held her tongue.

"You summoned me, Arishok?" The soldier's voice was deep and had a warm tone to it, like wrapping oneself in a thick blanket. Such a voice could never belong to a murderer of innocents.

"I did." The Arishok had returned to pondering his crude map etched in the sand.

"The child said it regards dragons."

There was a hint of a smile playing at the Arishok's lips, but he kept the humor from his voice. There was protocol, after all. "It actually regards darkspawn, but I will confess that dragons are involved."

Sten's eyes wandered to Marian and back again. "There is a woman present."

"A female, yes."

"Why?"

"She is from Ferelden."

There was a shallow nod, an emotionless reaction. "I've yet to meet a real woman from there. I...believe I understand, Arishok."

There was a gruff snort of laughter from the bearded Kithshok, but he held any other comment to himself. Marian was growing accustomed to what the Qunari thought a woman was or should be, but it was still strange to realize that the concept of gender apparently had little bearing on her actual appearance. She was female. She had all the working parts. But her previous life as a warrior kept coloring everything. She was female but no woman. It sounded like some Orlesian insult where she was a noblewoman but no lady.

"You are familiar with darkspawn?" Sten's question was directed at her.

She leveled her eyes at him, green narrowed into glinting slits of barely suppressed frustration. This gathering of the war council made the spat between Meredith and Orsino feel like a lover's quarrel. "I fought at Ostagar," she said. "I rescued my family from Lothering. I ventured through the Deep Roads. And I recently came through an infested Kont-Aar. Of course I'm familiar with darkspawn." She hadn't meant to sound so irritated at the question, but if the giant noticed, he showed no sign.

Sten gave another shallow nod of understanding. His eyes took her in from the crown of her head to the hem of her simple dress. They lingered on her sash, then her bracers, then locked onto her face. His forehead suddenly wrinkled in confusion, but it smoothed just as quickly.

"What is she?"

"Ben-Hassrath," the Arishok replied casually. "As for the rest, you should know as well as any what a mess the _bas_ -lands make of things."

"Mess, indeed." The warrior turned to face the others. "Darkspawn. What is the proposed strategy?"

The kithshoks discussed the various tactics at length, presenting all options before dragons would be necessary. They drew more lines in the sand, wiped the space clean, and started again. Sten asked few questions, but those he did came with general or dismissive responses. The Blight veteran turned to the Arishok who had remained pensively silent.

"In the weeks since the colony's loss, I can guarantee that darkspawn numbers have only increased exponentially. Dragons—as volatile an option as that is—might be our only recourse."

"They are untested in the ways of war!" one of the kithshoks objected heatedly.

Sten turned a flat stare upon the kossith. "So was the Grey Warden that I followed into battle against the Blight. Elven, female, lost in many ways, but she got the job done."

Everyone fell silent. There was not a single one of them that had not heard of the Warden Commander, her part in the war in Ferelden, her struggle against the darkspawn ever since. She commanded an entire army that served a very specialized purpose, and Marian felt the odd mental tingle as eye after eye fell upon her again. Females who were not women, who played at war as men, might have been "confused" or "lost" in the sight of the Qun, but the realization was hitting them. Females got things done. They maintained the structure of the Qun as Tamassrans. They built and crafted for the Qun within the _gena_. They served as administrators—and even captains—aboard naval ships. They could even fight defensively as Ben-Hassrath. Eventually, someone would realize that fighting was fighting regardless.

But she didn't expect the kithshoks to ever be so generous in their views.

Sten's respect for the Warden, however, was more than palpable. His tone softened just a little, his expression less stern. There was a shine to his eyes that belied genuine admiration. If the Qunari ever made a proper foray into Ferelden, they would probably stop dead on the battlefield, faced with a military comprised of more than a few women.

There was a sniff that broke the silence.

"Not a woman," the same ill-tempered kithshok muttered.

Marian felt herself grow bold, and she cocked her head to one side. "She was _defending_ her homeland and everything she believed in. Women are allowed to do such things. ...Do we really need to summon a Tamassran to the council chamber to end this and move on with the task at hand?"

"No," was the curt reply. "One of you is more than enough."

The strategic deliberations went on some time longer. Battalions were counted, soldiers in serviceable condition tallied. A blacksmith was brought in from outside to provide his opinion on weapon stores. An _ashkaari_ was then summoned to give a report on the supply of _gaatlok_ and _saar-qamek._ The statistics looked grim. Kont-Aar had held a full quarter of the entire _antaam_ , and only a small handful had escaped with the other refugees. They were now performing their duties in Seere, an accidental colony by the looks of things. They could be called upon if needed, surely, but that meant a dangerous trek through the jungle and abandoning the settlement entirely.

There was still the matter of Seheron. Bringing the entire army home had been an unwise decision and left a vacuum of power. The Qunari residents were in peril. The Fog Warriors were always unpredictable, and there was the strong chance that Tevinter honored written treaties about as well as the Qunari themselves. That was to say: not at all.

" _Shaltam_ , did he ever leave us in a state," the Arishok muttered eventually, leaning his forehead against the staff in his hand, eyes squeezed shut like he was suffering a headache.

"Your predecessor had moments of clarity," Sten put in comfortingly. "Alam was won to us by strategic force in the face of overwhelming odds."

"That's because he was sober that day," the bearded Kithshok snorted derisively. "The rest of it? It was a farce. That raid on the Tal-Vashoth was a complete-"

" _Parshaara_ ," the Arishok held up a hand tiredly. They had been at this for hours, now. Marian had resorted to pacing along the portico behind him to keep circulation in her legs. "Casting shame upon the past will get us no further into the future. We must work with what we have."

"And what is that?" Even the most disagreeable of the kithshoks had been made more docile by time and truth.

"We must send those previously assigned to Seheron back—that means the four of you and all your _karataams_." The Arishok pointed to the kithshoks respectively. "Qunandar and the rest of Par Vollen cannot be left undefended, not with Tevinter ships now moving back and forth between the Imperium and Rivain. And that means you lot." He singled out another four. "The rest of you each need to choose fifty of your finest and send the rest to Rivain."

"And those fifty?"

"Will be learning how to fight darkspawn."

The kitshok balked. "Arishok...you're asking us to take barely four hundred soldiers to a colony where _thousands_ were killed by these creatures! We should be taking the entire _antaam—_ hit them fast and hard and be home before Tevinter even knows what happened."

The Arishok said nothing. Not at first. He merely regarded his brother with look at once expressionless yet subtly severe. To question tactics was one thing. To suggest an alternative so rash that even the other kithshoks shuffled about nervously was a different matter altogether. It rang of the usurper, the one who had nearly driven them to ruin through impatience and dishonor. A kithshok was chosen for his experience and discretion, his temperance and courage in the face of utmost adversity. This kithshok was not only disagreeable but showing signs of unrest the remaining _antaam_ could little afford.

"Ben-Hassrath," the Arishok said at last, not moving but addressing Marian behind him. "If you wouldn't mind...could you check with Asari on her experiments? My brother doubts that we have the edge here."

"Arishok, four hundred soldiers-"

"We are finished here." The Arishok's tone was hard and unforgiving as he passed the staff to the kossith next to him. "If the _ashkaari_ have their answers, we have our strategy. Until then, my brothers, I beg you to have faith. We can afford little else."

Marian had barely made it out into the courtyard before he was beside her, shortening his steps but not making them any less heavy. The one known as Sten was at his other side just as quickly. The hornless kossith still frowned, but his eyes were wrinkled more with worry than displeasure. He said something lowly to the Arishok, the leader responding in kind. This continued the entire way to the _viddathlok_ where Sten finally took his leave and the Arishok remained beside his _kadan_.

"At least there is one that understands," he breathed, suddenly sounding very weary. Marian wondered if he had slept at all but already suspected she knew the answer. "We have no choice but to take only a few. We cannot stretch ourselves so thin for the sake of a colony, but we must make the attempt. It is a duty to those we lost."

"And what about the Qun?" Marian did her best to keep up with him as they mounted the stairs, her skirts bunched up into the balls of her fists. "What does it demand?"

"Honor was lost," he replied simply. "Honor must be restored. The Ariqun, I'm sure, can tell you more." He stopped and turned toward her when they were in the coolness of the inner pyramid, his large hands coming to rest gently on her shoulders. "But, now, I need you to check with Asari. The other reason for so few...is the threat of this blight disease. She was looking for a cure. Let us hope that she has found one."


	59. Waste Not, Want Not

Marian found it difficult to locate Asari. She was not in the _ashkaari_ laboratory like usual, and the scholars were a chorus of shrugs when asked. A few suggested the infirmary, but that proved a further goose chase. The wards, she was told. Asari was tending to those in the wards. And this was when Marian realized that she was probably the only Ben-Hassrath in all of Qunandar that didn't know what or where this place was.

Another Ben-Hassrath led the way, a golden-skinned kossith female who walked with a masculine gait. She was no longer young, but Marian could tell she could hold her own in a fight. And that she had seen many. Scars traced across her flesh, and the lavender and crimson cloth of her tunic had been mended many times. They talked a little. Marian began by trying to figure out the strange gender rules that appear to apply to more than just grammar. It boiled down to what the Qunari believed a woman was, which was a set of traits, a classification of behavior, a state of being that had little to do with anatomy or birth.

"Well, put me in a dress and make me dance the Remingold," Marian muttered with a healthy dose of irritation when the answer clarified nothing further.

"What?"

"Nothing. A _basra_ expression."

"Dresses and dancing are very womanly."

"You haven't seen the Remingold."

They continued on in silence for a while. The _viddathlok_ was far behind them, and they were traversing the crowded streets of the city in the direction of the shore. They were not heading to the docks, however. Not as Marian knew them, anyway. It was nearly an hour of walking through the heat and the sun by the time they reached their apparent destination, and the human's skin shone with sweat, her ginger hair sticking to her forehead and neck.

The wards appeared to be a small settlement on the very edge of the city, bordered by walls on three sides and the sea on the fourth. Soldiers were posted every few yards and _asari_ and _ashkaari_ bustled about. There were not a great number of them, but the place certainly felt busy. There was a smell, too. An odd smell that was bitter and sweet and thick, and a step through the gate nearly knocked Marian over with a potent odor that she couldn't place. She couldn't place it because it was being masked by the bitter-sweet. It smelled like the Deep Roads. Smelled of rot and death. But she could see nothing. The grass was low. The paths were clean. The buildings were whitewashed.

" _Banisera!_ "

Marian looked up as Asari came rushing over, waving her down wildly. Her robes were covered in what looked to be a full apron and a piece of cloth was tied about her nose and mouth. She held a similar one in her outstretched hand.

"Here, you will need this."

"What is going on?" Marian asked, voice slightly muffled as she tied on the cloth. It smelled strongly as well, like mint and sage and evergreen. The Ben-Hassrath took that as her opportunity to go. She was looking a bit pallid as it was. "The Arishok sent me to-"

"Of course, of course." Asari grabbed her friend by the arm and rushed her through the wards, her body hunched and steps tramping with determination. "He wants the cure we've found."

"You found it? He just wanted me to check on _if_ you had."

"We found it." Marian was steered off the main path and between two buildings. They emerged into a paved courtyard with a wide, low building on one side and a pile of death on the other.

That explained the smell.

Marian dug in her heels and stopped. Asari halted almost at once, turning around to look at her, blinking and curious. " _Kadan_? _Kadan_ , we do not have the time to...what's wrong?"

The woman from Fereldan had seen more death in her lifetime than was suitable for anyone. She'd caused most of it. She was familiar with the smell of blood, the feel of it on her fingers and face. She knew the milky eyes and pasty blue flesh of those gone cold. She had seen the piles set for burning after great battles or the spread of disease. She had even gotten used to seeing darkspawn corpses. What she saw here was neither human nor hurlock, not elven or kossith or ogre. What lay there in an inglorious pile was corpse after corpse of Blight-stricken or half-turned, dead ghouls awaiting the torch.

"Who were these people?" she breathed, her voice barely a whisper from the shock.

"I'm sorry?" Asari stepped closer, looking from her friend to the pile and back again as if she still couldn't figure out what the issue was.

Marian turned on her, heat in her green eyes. "Is there Blight here? Did it make it this far?" Her voice was hard, demanding.

Asari peered down at her and raised an eyebrow. "Only what we have induced, _kadan_. Don't worry, there is no threat of widespread-"

"What you have _induced_?"

The woman looked from Asari to the mound of corruption and rot. Men and women in white shifts. Hair shorn but bodies showing no true signs of abuse, they lay there apparent victims to disease. But they had been laying there for a while. It was Qunari practice to quickly dispose of their dead, usually by fire then cast the ashes to sea. The ones on top were relatively fresh, but those further down... Marian's face screwed up in disgust when she saw the blackened and oozing remains of someone's arm.

"Who were they?" she demanded again.

Asari shrugged. " _Kabethari_ ," she replied as if she had just been asked the weather. "Prisoners from Seheron. They refused conversion."

"The sword is more merciful."

"Don't be ridiculous," the kossith woman scoffed, turning on her heel and continuing to the building behind them. "To simply execute them is a waste. Even the unenlightened serve a purpose here." She stopped at the doorway until Marian finally was able to pull herself away from the grim sight. "They did not die in vain. With their help, we found that which will save Kont-Aar—save us. They earned honor even in their ignorance."

"You made them sick."

"In return for them _killing_ us." Asari's glare was hard and unforgiving. "You are a warrior, _kadan_. You know that war is unfair and cruel. Do not come to me now with relapses to your _basra_ creed of purity and mercy. These—these here—were Tevene _saarebas_ and their warriors. While our men were lost for years in your Kirkwall, our women and children were left to suffer. The _antaam_ was stretched thin. A weakness was exposed." Her eyes shifted away, lost focus. "We lost."

She went inside without another word. This time, there was no waiting for Marian to follow, no expectation or consideration. She merely returned to her work.

Marian stepped through the door with a humble hesitation, the room inside large and clean but with tables piled high with books and scrolls or covered with row upon row of corked, clay bottles. Herbs were hung in every window, incense burning in the corner. A bedroll lay haphazard along the far wall, papers strewn about it, some crumpled, others torn.

"Have you been living here?" she asked, her voice restrained.

"No, I merely sleep here sometimes."

Asari lifted one of the clay bottles and carefully ladled something into it from a large bowl. The liquid was thick and a deep reddish brown. Through the cloth, Marian didn't know what it smelled like, but given how fervently the physician had tried to freshen the air, she could only imagine it was as putrid as the pile outside. There was no telling what it was made of. She wasn't sure she wanted to know. When the bottle was full, Asari plugged the mouth with a cork and held it out to Marian.

"He will want this. It must be ingested by any afflicted, and they must not vomit." Her face softened and her body looked like it might wilt. They had not been here in Qunandar for long, but that did not mean that Asari had not been run completely ragged. Possibly of her own volition. "It is only recommended if one is already infected. A potential side-effect is death. Survivors complain of nightmares and whispering." Her eyes squeezed shut, but not before there was the glitter of tears. "What have I done?"

Marian rushed forward to catch up the other in her arms, embracing her with all the comfort she could muster as something happened she had never before seen. Or thought she ever would. Asari cried.

"You did your duty," the human replied gently.

"No. It's not enough." Hot tears soaked the cloth at Marian's shoulder. "There are still whispers, still dreams. They will suffer as _asari_ suffered."

"But they won't die." Marian pulled away just enough to look her friend—her sister—in the eyes. "You said it was a cure. It's a cure. You have done what only Grey Wardens could before, Asari. This?" She held up the bottle between them. "This is what will turn the tide in favor of all Qunari. You said that even those piled outside earned honor for this sacrifice. Are you going to waste that?"

Asari sniffed loudly, wiping her nose with her apron. "Qunari waste nothing."

"That we may want for nothing." Marian finished the adage of Koslun easily. It was inherent to her Fereldan upbringing, too. Waste not, want not, her mother had always said. She found it appalling that Asari had experimented as she had on living subjects, just because it was Asari and not someone else...but she was right. War was cruel. It brought with it necessary evils. And she could understand the drive to want someone dead simply because they were Tevene or a slaver or a blood mage. She was responsible for the deaths of scores of people in Kirkwall out of the defense for what she believed was right. By sword or experimental serum, it made no difference.

The tears eventually dried, Asari left staring at the bottle Marian held carefully in her hands. "What is it that the Grey Wardens say in all the stories? Their oath?"

"Join us, brothers and sisters. Join us in the darkness where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know your sacrifice will not be in vain, and that one day we shall join you."

The kossith nodded shallowly, her face blank and eyes vacant. "We are not so different after all. ...Are we?"


	60. The Ebb and Flow of Virtue

Asari presented her findings first to the Ariqun, then to the Arishok, and finally to the war council of Kithshoks with Sten in attendance. She was the very face of indifference, her face expressionless and her voice toneless. But she made sure to stress the side effects of her discovery, the risks as well as the rewards. For the majority, the Kithshoks brushed the warnings aside. Victory was worth a few nightmares, they said, and the physician was escorted out on Marian's arm.

The Arishok polled his generals. The vote was unanimous. The plan to retake Kont-Aar, as outlandish and risky as it was, would be set into motion, the few hundred men gathered and the disgraced prepared for their only redemption. Sten would see to the training of this latter group, the newly instigated Vashoth Stenok, and it was with the dignity of purpose that he took his leave of the war council. As the others gradually filed out, the Arishok felt a weight lifting. Directing soldiers was familiar territory for him, and having the loyalty of his brothers once more was a promising achievement. With that boost to his courage, he, too, left the chamber and walked the distance through the sunny streets and up the _viddathlok_ steps.

He had an appointment to keep. As Marian had been summoned that morning, so he was expected to present himself to the Ariqun. He was Qunoran. The Festival of Tides was to begin again that evening. He was also the Arishok. Just those facts alone compounded upon his mind to replace the weight he'd just thought lost. Heroes were encouraged to have children. Leaders were expected to have them as well. Being both? He ignored the giggles of two young _tamassrans_ as he stepped into the cool shade of the entry and navigated the dim interior to the Ariqun's study.

She was reading through a set of scrolls when he entered. Dressed already in her festival attire, deep violet robes with hair and horns bound up in red ribbons, she cut a grand profile in the light of the amber lanterns that sat about her. It was a minute or to before she took notice of his presence, but he did nothing to purposely attract her attention. He knew his place.

"Thank you for being so prompt, Arishok," the Ariqun said, not getting up and not setting the scrolls aside. "It bothered me to have Asari relay my summons on top of everything else she had to tell you, but it was simply more convenient." She lifted a hand to the chair opposite her. "Please. Sit."

He did as he was told. He strode over with measured steps to conceal any nervousness that threatened. His heart already raced at a fluttering _teppenna-teppenna,_ and he feared it making his way into his voice. This was one of those times, as if he were dealing with _basra_ , that he could not betray his inner emotions at any cost lest he be compromised.

But this was the Ariqun. If he could not be honest with her, then what was he?

"I have managed to track down your records," she continued as she moved on to the next scroll in her lap. "Yours is a line to be proud of. He who gave you strength is descended directly from the Homeland and is from a long line of warriors. She who gave you life was a gold-blooded Tamassran and also purely kossith. None of your line fell to disfavor or to the gray, hence, you were called Aqunan as a child to emphasize your steadfast virtue by birth." She finally looked up at him, golden eyes smiling. "You could have your pick of anyone, Arishok. Within reason."

He softly cleared his throat. "I don't see how just anyone could benefit the people, Ariqun. A non-kossith would just as likely die as give birth."

"Yes," the Ariqun admitted, setting another scroll aside. "But you have earned your right to choose. The Qun makes this one allowance for those who have risked so much for the good of all."

"That I might freely choose who has the chance of dying for the Qun?" The Arishok's tone was incredulous. "With all due respect, Ariqun, I would prefer not to make this choice."

The Ariqun's lips were graced by a small smile though she had appeared to return to her reading his life's story. "You have already given eight children to the Qun. Not having the choice didn't stop you then. Your predecessor would have jumped at the chance to choose whom he would."

"My predecessor forgot what it was to serve the Qun."

Her eyes flashed up to his again. "I meant he whom you followed to Kirkwall. He knew his place very well. He also knew what he had to grant the next generation. Tamassrans have their duties and carry it out with the skill of any science, but there comes a point when a man knows with certainty which is the most appropriate match for himself alone. Forget that which is _hanar_ for a moment, Arishok. Qunoran are given the right to choose because it is believed that they have the capability to choose wisely. The forbidden are available to you. For one day only, selfish thoughts are yours to have."

"You do not want to know my selfish thoughts, Ariqun. Just know that I prefer to abstain than cause the death of another."

The Ariqun actually laughed. "Surely, you understand that only Qunari women can give birth to real men, Arishok. Going on that fact alone, how could you fear this choice? If the woman dies, it is weakness purged from the Qun, though her sacrifice will be honored as all such things are. You know this. You were raised to know this." But her expression became more serious when she saw the perturbed line of his mouth. "Yet you hesitate." She reached for a fresh piece of parchment and her stylus. "Are you troubled because you have already made your choice...and fear killing her specifically?"

The look in her eyes said everything. She knew already. There was no way for her not to. But he was still given the benefit of the doubt in the face of insubstantial proof. It would not be what he said but how he presented it that would be critical. Kossith were not subject to _qamek_ as the other races were. But there were methods of correction that were as equally effective and permanent should it be deemed necessary.

"I was born to be a warrior. The realm of a _tamassran_ is not mine, though one gave me life. I was raised to read and understand the ebb and flow of the Qunari people as the ocean itself, and my time in Kirkwall allowed me to study the _basra_ in a similar light. Serah Hawke had always been a curiosity to us, the Arishok mentioning that she deserved special attention and respect from us. When my honor was taken from me, the irony lay in that she was the only tie I had left to my own people. She was gathering the blades of the fallen the same as I. We worked together, came to travel together and understand one another. I know not when she fully came to realize the Qun. Perhaps it's when she recited the _meraad_. Perhaps when she helped the refugees at Seere. Perhaps-"

He broke off, dropping his head into his hands and clawing his hair. _Perhaps when she learned what I had done, what I had given her._ He couldn't find the strength to say it. "She was all I had to keep me grounded in my faith, to stay the course. She was the soul I had lost. I saw what I _had been_ in her, and at the same time, I saw what I could be again. She was the soul—the honor—I had lost. I am nothing without her." He lifted his head at last, seeming to rest his nose on woven fingers while his eyes stared off to the side as if the woven rug could give him answers. "We are both broken, she and I. There is no fixing that. But I sometimes wonder if two halves could rebond into one in a new generation."

The smile returned to the Ariqun's face, smaller and sympathetic rather than amused. "What did they teach you, Arishok, of what the Qun says of love?"

"That love is tyranny of the heart."

"Love is tyranny of the heart." She spoke not in Qunlat, but in the trade tongue. Odd. "Did you not love your brothers, in the _antaam_?"

"Yes—"

"And you have affection for your people, as they have for you."

"I do, but-"

"And Ben-Hassrath?" He had no answer to that.

The Ariqun moved all the papers from her lap and set aside the stylus as she continued. "There is more to this one word, 'love', than the sum of its letters. We have affection. We have a oneness of spirit. We have brotherhood. We have the longing of one soul for the union with another. It is lust that deserves our caution. What few _tamsassrans_ relate—especially to _viddathari_ —is the nuance of meaning in our word for 'love'. They associate it with such a general concept as if that is all the simple-minded could comprehend. They would beat it out of our children from the moment they realize the difference between a male and a female.

"'Lust is tyranny of the heart,' they should say. Leave 'love' to its purity of affection, its oneness of spirit. _Anaa_ , they should teach them. Love for the sake of the Qun." Her eyes glittered once more, but only a hint, a glinting of light shining out from the gold. "Do you love her, Arishok, for the sake of the Qun?"

He inhaled a deep breath through his nose. Calming. Cleansing. The incense burning from the other side of the room helped him retain clarity. "It is through the Qun that I love her, that I hold affection and understand what she can give our people. She has taught me as much as I have taught her, and I firmly believe that such can only make us stronger moving forward. She has many admirable qualities that would be a boon to future generations."

The Ariqun continued to smile. "Then I shall record your choice, Arishok, that the _tamassrans_ may know. I will note its potential. Fate will see to the rest." She bowed her head to him a single time, a gesture of respect from one equal to another.

It also the sign that he could leave.

The Arishok walked from the room less agitated than when he had entered it. This time, only half the weight was relieved from him, that which had tugged and dragged him down into a quagmire of worry over the dangers of selfish acts. The demons had plagued him. But Justice had overcome. He had nearly forgotten himself. But Temperance had intervened. He knew these concepts from his earliest days and found comfort in them. He just hoped that the Ariqun was right. And Wisdom would prevail.


	61. The Joining

As sundown approached, the streets of Qunandar were once more cordoned off, plaza after plaza carpeted with crushed and fragrant rose petals. Tables were laid. Musicians took position and tuned instruments or tightened drum heads. The people already were flocking to the designated areas in anticipation of the event already long-delayed. The Festival would begin again.

Marian saw none of this. She was deep within the _viddathlok_ , her hands clasped as in a vice. It was painful. But it wasn't nearly so horrible as what was happening. Asari had delivered her cure to one of her superiors in the nursery, and the woman was administering a small dose mixed in dathrasi milk. The hardest part was getting Talan to drink at all. No wonder, given how the mixture smelled of swamp and decay and death. It had to have tasted worse.

The baby was absolutely wailing. Her pudgy little hands pushed away the milk bladder as her eyes spilled hot, angry tears. Her face was as red as a beet, and Marian was convinced that even a dragon's scream was not so shrill or so loud. Asari's hands gripped tighter, and Marian had to bite down on her lip to not scream herself. The kossith woman was fretting as badly as any mother, and it was not hard to know why. This potion, for lack of a better word, was deadly to full-grown adults. And they were giving it to an infant. Being diluted and a necessity didn't matter. It merely felt that they were choosing how this baby died, and slower might actually have been better.

Qunra got creative at one point. Fussy infants were nothing new to one as venerable as she, and passing the child of to Asari for a moment, she took a drop of the solution and traced the edge of a teething toy. The child was calm almost immediately in Asari's loving arms, which made it no challenge to prompt her to gnaw on the ring. She chewed and cooed for several minutes, grinning up at a golden-eyed woman who somehow managed to beam and cry all at once.

And the wailing began again. Louder this time, more pained, and Marian forced herself to watch as the baby flailed and then went stiff in Asari's arms. The physician cried almost uncontrollably while Qunra looked on in horrified fascination. Talan's eyes flew open wide as the rest of her froze in place. The pupils, the brilliant blue irises, the white portions—all were smothered in an inky blackness that had no sheen even in the bright, magnesium lighting. Her eyes closed again. She went limp, and Asari frantically brought her fingers up to quickly yet gently feel for a pulse. She collapsed into a chair in hysterics when she failed in her simple mission to find some sign of life.

Slowly and with caution, Marian bent forward to scoop Talan from her sister's arms. Asari made no struggle, instead going limp in what she apparently viewed as a self-imposed misery. The human felt along Talan's neck before resting her thumb against the baby's tiny temple. There was still a pulse, quick yet slowing down, but it was still strong. Somehow...through all that...she was still alive. She cradled the baby's body and head and lowered her forehead to touch hers.

"Join us, little sister," she whispered, converting the Grey Warden oath into Qunlat as carefully as she could. "Join us in the darkness where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry a duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish..." Tears burned her own eyes and fell from her lashes onto Talan's pale cheeks. "And should you perish, know that we love you...and that your sacrifice will not have been in vain, and that one day we shall join you." She pressed her lips to the baby's forehead and passed her back to Qunra.

"She lives," Marian said simply, wiping the tears from her eyes. She really hoped she would never have to go through that again. "She merely sleeps."

The old Qunra merely nodded and walked off to a nearby cradle, a tiny bed little more than a trough full of blankets and goosedown. She laid Talan inside and tucked her in.

Marian went to her sister, kneeling at her feet so that she could see up into Asari's face. The kossith was muttering to herself. A line from the Qun. _Cast not out your children, for they are your every future._

" _Kadan_ ," she said gently, raising a hand to lift the other's chin. "She's fine. Talan is all right."

Asari shook her head. "She'll have nightmares for the rest of her life," she sniffed. "Nightmares and whispers, and _I_ would have done it to her."

"She was born with the taint, sister. Nightmares are all she's ever known." A thought struck her just then, be it a shot of logic through a puddle of mud or complete wishful thinking, she didn't care. "And she'll be all the stronger for it. Just think. Our little _kadikadan_ will be afraid of nothing. She will be the bane of all the darkspawn, Qunoran for all her people."

"They would never let her fight."

"They'll have to." Marian was determined to grind at least one thing home. When it came to being a Grey Warden, being female didn't matter. "She will have the ability to sense them, to be immune to their corruption, to know their every weakness."

"Ben-Hassrath."

It was a voice behind her. Turning quickly, Marian saw one of the Tamassrans closest to the Ariqun standing in the doorway to the nursery. She was dressed for the festival, and her hands were folded before her. Folds of rich crimson cloth were tucked under her arm. When Marian turned back to her friend, she found Asari smiling at her. Wan and strained though it was, it still held its usual, genuine warmth.

"Go, my sister," she said softly, her voice still cracking even as she calmed. She gently squeezed Marian's hands in hers. "Your duty is elsewhere. Go."

* * *

The drums absolutely thundered. The rapid cadence echoed through the city and back from the mountains beyond. Qunari danced wildly, in pairs or groups or alone, in ways that even Isabela had never dreamed she'd see. She, Fenris, and Varric had found their way to a smaller plaza not so dominated by the warrior and scholarly elite, quainter, cozier, full of other _viddathari_ that were just as likely to be human and elven as anything else.

The pirate had her hands full minding the expert storyteller off to her left, who had long since climbed up onto the table, walking its length as he told the latest exploits (at least the draft thereof—no one get too excited) of Torio Deluca, the Black Shadow, and how it came to be that an Antivan was the Arigena's most trusted spy. The audience was as captive to him as the cup of imported ale in his hand, and it was obvious that he was relishing every bit of it.

Fenris sat to her other side, dressed down in a cotton tunic and trousers, his arms bare to the shoulders. Lyrium glittered along his skin in the torchlight. His knee kept a beat in time to the drums even as he idly played with his own cup as if he had a total lack of interest in what was going on.

"You can't even _pretend_ to brood, anymore," Isabela said slyly, leaning over so that he could hear her better over the din. "I know you too well, Fenris. You're happy here."

He laughed through his nose and tipped back his drink. "And you would know this, how?"

She shrugged, purposely bumping into his shoulder. "It's been a growing impression over the past couple of weeks. And let me just say-" she drained her own cup and reached to pour another from a pitcher at the middle of the table "-your smile is really quite something to see."

"If you say so," he obliged, holding out his cup for a refill while she still had the pitcher in-hand. "But, to be honest, you haven't seen anything." He toasted her with a small gesture and drained the drink in one go. And grinned. The green of his eyes was vibrant in the firelight, and there was a faint blush to his cheeks from the citrus wine. "Care to dance with me, Bela- _dulca_?"

Isabela blinked at him. She was absolutely flabbergasted that he was, firstly, a happy sort of drunk, secondly, toying with her just as much as she was him, and thirdly...

"I wouldn't say things like that too loudly," she said to him with a coy smile, getting to her feet. "Someone here might think you're Tevene." She backed away from him, one arm extended in his direction even as her hips sashayed a backward path to the petal-strewn square where bodies already meshed, lithe and glistening with sweat.

His eyes practically smouldered over his smile. "Let them think it all they want," he replied as he slid into the mass of bodies beside her. "Where I was born is but a shadow to what I am. I am Qunari, and all my brothers would tell you likewise." He threw his arms into the air as if in emphasis...and danced. Isabela moved with him, two people lost in a crowd. But to them, it didn't matter. After so long surrounded by death, they finally had the chance to experience the opposite in all its energetic and tramping glory. And when Fenris' hand slipped about her waist, Isabela knew there was still so much yet in store.

* * *

Marian was very confused. Instead of being ushered to the Festival as she had the first day, dressed in a useless frock with the sole purpose of attracting the attention of one of the _gena_ , Tamassran led her to the baths and completely scrubbed her down. Hot soak. Cold soak. Skin oiled. Hair plucked—and, Maker, was that an experience she could have done without. When it came to being redressed, she couldn't even say she was put in actual clothing. Not anything that struck her as such, anyway. Tamassran merely draped the red fabric over her, covering what needed to be covered, and clasping it at the shoulder with a gleaming bronze brooch. Her hair was brushed until it was mostly dry and hanging in loose, natural curls. Tamassran seemed to toy with the idea of binding it up but thought better of it after some experimentation.

Then, once everything was just so, Marian was escorted once more, down hallways, out of the _viddathlok_ and away from where all the festivities were going on entirely. She questioned, but Tamassran merely looked at her and gave what seemed to be a reassuring smile. There was a look in her eyes almost bordering on pity, but that could have just as easily been a trick of the moonlight. They walked along one of the main thoroughfares out of the city but did not actually leave it. Instead, Tamassran pushed her way through a gate and along a path that climbed upward. They were ascending to the top of a seaside cliff, water crashing into the relentless stone far below. When the ground became level again, the view was breathtaking. As far as Marian could see in three directions, there was a vast, unfathomable sea, waves reflecting the moonlight into thousands of tiny slivers. The stillness of the stars was all that separated the sea from sky unless she looked to the south. There, aglow with orange and white light, was the celebrating expanse of Qunandar.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, a soft wind catching her words and carrying them away.

"Wait here," the Tamassran said, resting a golden hand on Marian's shoulder for a brief moment. "Meditate while you have the time."

The human grasped for her even as she walked off. "Meditate? What am I waiting for?"

"Wait. And meditate. The answer is as constant as the sea." And she left.

Marian sat down upon the grass, leaning her back against a lone tree that had long overlooked this precipice. Wildflowers grew nearby, small, star-shaped ones of a bright yellow hue. She plucked one and held it to her nose. There was no scent. The sea rumbled. The wind whispered. She let go of the tiny blossom and watched as it disappeared into the darkness on the back of a gust of air. All the tranquility in the world could not tell her what it was she was waiting for or should be meditating on.

She hadn't realized that she'd fallen asleep until she was jolted awake by something brushing along her jaw. She started and turned her head, one hand raised defensively only to quickly stop inches from a face crowned by impressive kossith horns. Bands of bronze lightly caught the moonlight, and she could just make out the lines of his face.

"Was I-"

He touched his fingertips to her lips to hush her, a smile breaking upon his own. "What did the Tamassran tell you?"

Marian adjusted her position to be a little more comfortable. He continued to kneel before her. "She said to wait...and meditate. But I was never good at either, and all I had to go one was that the answer was as constant as the sea." His hand had gone back to tracing the curve of her jaw and ear, and she put a hand over his to still it. Speaking was growing difficult for some reason. Being her usual sharp self even worse. That he was touching her made her ache somewhere inside, but the feeling of confusion was even greater.

"Your answer is Aqunan," he replied softly, taking her by both hands and drawing her back up to her feet. "He Who is Constant. As the sea," he gestured with a nod, "or the Qun. Or the beating of a living heart while full of its own spirit." He reached down to his waist and drew forth a large bloom, brilliant in color and five-petaled like the other. It, too, had no fragrance, but where it lacked there, it more than made up for in sheer appearances.

"Are you familiar with this?"

"Hybiscus, I think."

He nodded and reached up to weave it into the strands of her hair. "It is by some to be a symbol for our people. Once, we were more than the House of Tides, more than a floating _antaam_ with no proper home. The hybiscus symbolized our faith with the five Demands in the five petals, our strength in the branches that withstand frost and drought, and our wisdom that came only with experience. We learned long ago, that death must happen to make way for new life. And so the hybiscus grows, blooming for a day only that more may follow." He tilted her chin up with the knuckle of his index finger. "I see all this in you, _kadan_. All this and more."

She folded her hands around his, weaving the fingers together yet not letting it leave from beside her face. "And Aqunan?"

"My name," he replied. "When I was a child. It was the virtue I was to carry forward. It is traditionally left behind when we are given our first roles. It-"

Marian quickly pressed a hand to his mouth, her eyes searching his face in the darkness for some answer she didn't even have a question to. Her heart was pounding in her chest so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"No lectures," she whispered, cradling his cheek. "No lessons, no proverbs. Just tell me one simple thing. What are we doing out here?"

The Arishok smiled again, and breathed a small laugh as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. His thumb moved the brooch as if briefly examining it. "Our duty, _kadan_ ," he replied. "Marian. We are here to fulfill a demand of the Qun."

In the space of a heartbeat, his mouth found hers, warm lips pressed with gentle urgency. A beat more, and Marian found herself drifting backwards, his strong arms supporting her even as her knees gave way. They came to rest in the soft cushion of the tall grass, bodies mingling as a shattered soul slowly knitted itself back together.


	62. Qunoran

Marian awoke beneath the tree. Her head rested against the hollow of the Arishok's shoulder and his head upon hers, even breaths caught in the strands of her tousled hair. They were both wrapped in the red cloth that had served as Marian's dress with only the Arishok's chest exposed from here he leaned against the tree.

The sun was already high, signaling mid-morning, but not a sound could be heard other than the waves and a few sea birds. Qunandar still slept. Taking advantage of the moment of peace, Marian shifted to be as close to the Arishok as possible. It was both a thrill and a comfort to feel his skin against hers, warm, firm, and inviting. He had fallen asleep with an arm around her, and she reached down one hand to link her fingers with his.

There was a slight movement on the top of her head as if his lips had drawn back into a smile. His arm moved just a little to hold her tighter.

"Good morning," he murmured, lifting his head to kiss her hair.

She gave a contented hum through her nose as she stretched her legs out, wrapping one about his. "A very good morning."

He chuckled. "Yes. Yes, you are correct."

"What pressing duty demands your attention today?" It was a serious question, but the lazy tone to Marian's voice belied how much, in that moment, she believed the world only consisted of the two of them. It was almost like conversation was merely a formality.

"Only what I wish," was the velvet reply. "Until sundown, I am my own master and may do as I like. The reward for being named Qunoran."

She hummed again. "And what would you like to do?"

"Be only with you," he said simply as if the answer were quite obvious. He moved the arm that he had wrapped around her, letting loose her fingers. He trailed his fingernails along her skin. Goosebumps prickled in the wake of his touch, and Marian sucked in a sharp breath, biting at her lower lip. "A privilege I intend to explore in its entirety, mind, body, and soul."

There was no objection on her part that he started with her body. He left no part of her untouched, no inch unkissed. She was a breathless piece of clay and his to do with as he pleased, bonding only as one soul can with its missing piece. Where the evening had been reserved, neither sure of what to expect, the morning brought a renewed courage and untempered passion that left both gasping. When Marian no longer had the strength to move, the Arishok eased. He remained one with her even as he finished, their bodies curled into each other upon their bed of grass and earth.

Marian kissed the groove of his chest before tucking her head in against him. "One day," she whispered, her arms holding onto him as tightly as they could.

"Yes."

"And then what?"

"Things return to as they should be." He fell silent for a time, so long that Marian thought he had either finished speaking entirely or had fallen asleep again. Save that his arms were clutching her tightly to him, mouth pressed once more to her hair. "And I will always love you. For the sake of the Qun."

He pulled away from her just a little, rising up on an elbow and tilting her chin so that she was looking up at him. "Though we are one soul, you must remember that I am but one of many. It is the Qunari way. I must be no more important to you than any other."

She gave him a small half smile and laid a hand to his cheek. "But you gave me your _asala_. And I gave you mine. Your victories are my honor. Your shame is my burden. When you die, I must follow. It is the Qunari way." She raised herself up to lightly kiss him. "I think even the Ariqun would be hard pressed to agree that you are no more important to me than any other."

His smile matched hers as he brushed hair from her face, wind toying with the copper strands that seemed to glow of their own accord in the brilliant sunlight. She saw something in his eyes. There was a well of emotion behind the silver-violet that he had long concealed behind scowls and discipline. His touch was tender, his manner easy. Here was a Qunari freed of his need for absolute temperance even if only for a scant few hours. And the sun was already high.

"Are you done exploring the body, then?" she asked in a playful tone, her face reflecting the same. "Shall the mind or soul be next? At least...for a little while. Until I can regain my strength."

The Arishok laughed, full and loud, his head thrown back in genuine mirth. His eyes shone when they met hers again, and he reached out to take her by the hand. "You miss nothing, _kadan_."

"It's how I've stayed alive this long," she replied with a wink. "Now. Mind or soul?"

"Mind," he replied, unable to stop smiling. "But over breakfast. I cannot stress how vital it is that you maintain your strength today."

He helped her to redress to the best of his ability. Neither had any idea how the Tamassran had initially wrapped the cloth so effectively before, but they had a serviceable and modest drape before too long. Once everything was secured with the brooch and _taarbas_ sash, the two made their way across the clifftop meadow and down the goat path. The city had awoken by the time they entered, and many Qunari were helping themselves to a communal meal. All the main streets were lined with tables. The pavement was littered with ruined petals, bits of bone, and rinds of fruit, but no one seemed to pay it any mind.

They found themselves a table near the main market hall. Seated amongst elven _viddathari_ , they ate boiled meat and fresh bread, helping themselves to a bowl of vegetables fresh from the fields. The elves chatted with each other, seemingly ignorant of their presence, with bothered no one. Marian and the Arishok had fallen into a comfortable silence while they broke their fast, and when they'd had their fill, they moved on.

The Arishok gestured further up the street to where the buildings made way for a large square. It wasn't quite as large as that before the _viddathlok_ , but it certainly attempted to rival it in overall grandeur. A building comprised almost entirely of white columns flanked an entire side, drapes of colored silks hanging in each and every opening. Drummers already beat a cadence at one end while people clapped and danced and threw themselves headlong into this chance to make merry. All around, crowds of people gathered near raised platforms. Upon each was a Qunari of any given race, male or female though mostly male. Some looked to be delivering speeches. Others were performing feats of strength. On one particular platform, a Ben-Hassrath that Marian recognized wore a binding of red cloth about her chest and a skirt low about her hips and slit up both sides. For Ferelden or the Free Marches, it would have been considered inappropriate attire. For the Qunari, the woman was out of uniform but well within the bounds of modesty. In a land where winter felt like summer, it was easy to understand.

The Ben-Hassrath danced as only a woman could, her hips moving one way, her torso another, and her shoulders and arms each doing something different of their own. Asari had tried to teach Marian the style, one most befitting a female of martial prowess, but it had been slow progress. The idea was to display physical discipline, the level of control one had over the muscles in the body. If performed with absolute precision, the dance was supposed to win a promising choice of mate from the warrior caste.

"It's the Ergena," the Arishok told her, speaking loudly so as to be heard. "The Meeting of the People to give life back to the Qun." He pointed all around them. " _Ashkaari_ competing at oratory. _Karasten_ dueling with staves. And you've seen the Ben-Hassrath." He nudged her meaningfully. "Perhaps you will dance for me before this day is out."

Marian shot him a look. "If you mean a dance as warriors, then by all means. But if you mean that?" She looked back to the undulating kossith female with probably a full _beresaad_ at her feet. "I humbly request the Arishok spare me from such embarrassment."

"You disappoint me," her mate tutted, amusement consuming his features. "Just about all women are expected to dance as part of the-"

"Did you say 'women'? I heard that correctly, yes?"

The Arishok nodded.

"Well, then, was it you or was it not you that told the _entire_ war council that I was female but no woman?"

He mashed his lips together to try to conceal the grin.

"My point is made."

They moved on, comfortably silent again but hands linked as they navigated the ever-growing and shifting crowd. Leaving via a side street, the Arishok led the way through a residential area, two-storey apartments on either side with large windows shuttered by bamboo slats or iron grates. In either case, the whitewashed facades were covered with winding tendrils of ivy, windowsills spilling over with potted herbs and edible, fragrant flowers. Eventually, they came to another plaza. This one was much smaller, almost private, overflowing with foliate both native and foreign with shallow reflecting pools set into the mosaic tile of the pavement. There was no exit beyond the street that had led them here.

"People come to places like this for quiet and contemplation," the Arishok explained. Marian's hand still in his, he used the other to shield his eyes while he gauged the placement of the sun. "It is also for intellectual debates and discussion into the interpretation of the Qun." He motioned to one of the alabaster benches lining the space. "Come."

The exploration of the mind began. For the first time since he had begun to teach her the ways of the Qun, the Arishok posed questions to her ranging from the tactical to the philosophical. He asked her about Ferelden. He asked about the Chant of Light. He asked for as many stories as she could tell about Andraste. And he asked her why, if it is what she was raised to believe, that she now thought it nonsense.

"In Kirkwall, I watched so many people sitting around waiting for things to go their way, waiting for a miracle, waiting on the benevolence of strangers who had their own business to mind." A thoughtful scowl on her face, she swept loose locks of hair behind her ears. "I knew the only way to get anywhere was to depend on myself. The Maker was deaf and blind and no amount of faith was going to change that. I lived my life on the skills I knew best and found success. Nowhere in the Chant does it say to put faith in _yourself_ above all things."

"The Qun asks only that you be what you are."

Marian nodded. "Which is why I insisted you join us on the _Hawke's Flight_. You were the only Qunari left in Kirkwall."

The Arishok's face clouded over with confusion. He leaned forward, a hand braced on one knee and an elbow on the other, just so he could look her square in the eye. "You... _intended_ to come here all along?"

"Yes," she replied nonchalantly, smoothing out folds in her dress. "What, did you think the others and I were planning on sailing about aimlessly for the fun of it?"

"Such is the _basra_ way."

She shrugged and gave him a warm smile. "I was lost, it's true. Very lost and wallowing in unhappiness. The only purpose I had left was to return your swords."

"You had been elected their leader. That purpose, I would think, outweighs assisting a lone Taarbas."

"The city was already being run by the Templars and the Senechal. They didn't need me, and I wasn't in any state to help them." She inhaled deeply, breathing the combined scent of the flowers around them. Looking up, she could see the sun through ivy-covered latticework. "I wanted stability. I wanted my family. I found them with you."

At the last, she slipped her hand back into his though she did not turn back to him. The sun had her full attention. It had passed the zenith and was now on its course downward. They had been sitting here for hours, and there was only so much one could do in a day. They had until sundown to understand each other completely. That was appearing to be the Arishok's ultimate goal with this, his attention so fixated on Marian alone.

"The hour grows late, Arishok," she said softly. "Shall we move on to the soul?"

He nodded a single time, his eyes on the clasped hands between them. And, without a word, he stood and led her back the way they came, following roads and side streets to the very heart of the city. They came to stand in front of the _viddathlok_. The plaza was more busy than anywhere else, and it was a challenge for them to make it to the steps to climb within. But once inside, it was as if the whole building was deserted. The flame troughs still burned with white fire to light their way, but no Ben-Hassrath stood guard. No Tamassrans passed them in the corridors.

They walked in silence until they came to the central library, a massive chamber similar to that in Kont-Aar but wider more than it was high. Climbing more stairs and following narrow balconies they eventually ducked into a study room. It was filled by a low wooden table surrounded by woven cushions, and in its center was a pile of scrolls bound in red ribbon sealed with the mark of the Ariqun.

"I had them prepare this for you before the festivities began," the Arishok stated, inviting Marian to sit. "We are as one soul, _kadan_ , and we must learn to live with that. My whole life is there before you."

Marian sat upon the cushion. Her hands were in her lap, and she found she was nervously twisting her fingers. There were so many scrolls, some of them in disrepair as if someone had intended to destroy them but failed. Dozens of long pieces of rolled parchment covered in the tight and neat script of the _tamassrans_ and _ashkaari_. Scrolls that would tell her anything she wanted to know about the Arishok, his history, his parentage, his lineage, the expectations ever had of him, the traits he was born with.

"No," she said at last, shaking her head slowly. "These records can tell me things about you. But they cannot tell me who you are." She turned to where he still stood in the doorway. "I already know your soul, Aqunan. For it is what I have come to love. That soul which is yours and mine." She got up and stepped near him, so close but not touching as she gazed up into his face. His face was expressionless but his eyes were a veritable chaos of emotion. "And you've known that for a while."

All he could manage was a shallow nod. That was all she would let him do. No more lessons. No more lectures. No more proverbs. She threw her arms around his neck, standing on her toes to kiss him. She kissed him with everything that had built up inside of her since Kirkwall. She kissed him with passion. She kissed him with love. And she knew, deep within her, that all the _qamek_ in the world could not take this away from her.


	63. Legion

The Festival continued for a week as was its custom. Drums beat long into the air like thunder, and bodies crowded the streets. When it was over, there was a lull over the entire island, a breath of silence that lasted but for a moment before daily life resumed as planned. There was such a dramatic shift to it all that the Kirkwallers found themselves thrown off. There was no time to rest hangovers or rest off the nights of no sleep and days of carousing. There was no dispensation made if one wasn't feeling as up to par as they should have been. There was only duty. And there were no excuses.

The soldiers of the _antaam_ set to work straight away in making preparations. Not a single unit was idle, all preparing for a battle fought on multiple fronts. Sten, it was rumored, had not even allowed his assigned _karataam_ to take part in the revels at all. They were disgraced, wiped from the lists of honor, and all that was left to them was atonement through death. He knew all too well what such a fate held in store, and he even refused himself rest until the lot of them understood the full measure.

The Arishok and Kithshoks assigned to Kont-Aar watched as the Blight veteran led his soldiers in a vigorous _shok-ana_. Qunari movements were meshed with something else, new tactics that looked better suited to close quarters and more defense than offense. Attacks were short and sharp. They aimed to kill quickly and with as little bloodshed as possible. The soldiers in the yard did not grumble. They did not gripe or complain. They were prisoners as much as they were warriors, but there was none of them who did not respect with every iota of his being this hornless kossith who paced among them, shouting instruction without raising his voice, adjusting their posture without rough handling. He did not treat them any less for having favored the usurper, and they nursed that spark of respect into a flame that would have felled an archdemon.

"Are you sure of this, Arishok?" the human Kithshok was asking, his frame shorter but no less broad as he stood beside his commander. "Will these soldiers be enough coupled with ours?" He remained next to him as the team of commanding officers moved on from that field inspection to the next.

The Arishok paused to watch a trio of _arvaraad_ struggle with a young dragon. They were binding its torso with leather bands to begin breaking it in for harness and rider. The creature's violet-black scales gleamed in the intense sunlight as it threw back its head and shrieked and tried to shake off the Qunari handlers. But these men had been training dragons since the concept had come to them, and they knew to avoid the leathery wings, the dangerous front claws, and to stay well back from the reach of the long and well-muscled neck. In minutes, their task was done, the dragon struggling against a bond it could not break. Any attempts at flight were futile. Four heavy chains held it to the ground and gave it only enough freedom to move from one side of the training yard to the other. If it breathed its poisonous red-green flame, the heat touched nothing that could not withstand it.

"They will have to be," the Arishok finally replied, is hands grasping the balustrade while his eyes narrowed in calculation. It was difficult to tell if he were analyzing what was going on below or thinking of some greater scheme. "We are spread too thin, and Tevinter knows it. This victory can only come of those willing to make the sacrifice."

"But so few."

"Those few will be trained much better than those we have already lost. We must have confidence that it is enough."

They continued on with their inspections, taking in everything from the small invading force to those who would be sent to Seere and those to Seheron. The Kithshoks broke off as they met with their respective units, and the Arishok was eventually left alone to continue on to his own business. He made directly for the _viddathlok_ as had been his intention, the Ariqun and Arigena already waiting for him inside. Their destination was the great hall, the space crowded with men and women all dressed in the uniform of _ben-hassrath_. The Arishok would not let himself think beyond that. He had spent the past few days clearing his mind of everything but the task at hand. No glimpse of ginger hair could be allowed to distract him.

There was murmuring in the crowd, both knowing and unknowing, as the Triumvirate came to stand at the fore. Each stood in front of their respective Dragon Seat, and the crowd suddenly hushed expectantly as they waited for their leaders to sit. None did. The silence took on the pained anticipation of held breath.

"Brothers and sisters," the Ariqun began, her matronly voice echoing off the stone. Diluted sunlight fell upon them from high above where the top of the pyramid opened to the sky. "Brothers and sisters, we have gathered you to share what duty you must now serve. It is nothing that you aren't fit for, that you weren't born for. Circumstances have arisen that require the _antaam_ to fight once more, divided and distant and spread thin throughout our territories. Word has come from the barricade that Tevinter sails freely through our waters, and it is due to this that we have greatest need of you. If the time comes, brothers and sisters, we must lend our strength to our soldiers who stay."

She turned and gave a small nod to the Arishok. Softly clearing his throat, he took a step forward to address the crowd that was now fully regarding him, still waiting with that painfully held breath for him to tell them what they must do.

"Two full commands will be sent out: one to Seheron to secure our holdings there and another to the _basra_ settlement of Seere. Those of our people who survived the disaster at Kont-Aar fled there to seek refuge just in time for Tevinter to grow hungry for more slaves. I will be leading a single battalion to Kont-Aar. It is our duty to reclaim it for our children, and the Vashoth Stenok will not return until this is done. Your duty, _ben-hassrath_ , is to guard those children. Be on your guard. Be ready to act if summoned. By the Qun, that is all we can hope for. We are in a weakened state. Even the women must be ready to fight for the heart of all we are."

The murmur returned. It was louder this time, the confusion more fierce than simply befuddled. The _ben-hassrath_ were accustomed to teaching and policing the populace, keeping people honest and wielding the sword of justice if need be. They could fight, yes, even the women. But to be held in reserve, to be included in the matters of the _antaam_ before a crisis even occurred was nothing any of them could recall happening in at least a full generation.

" _Arishokost_!" a voice piped up above the din.

The Arishok's eyes shot over the crowd, looking for the source yet lingering on no face for long. The call came again, and he finally saw a small dwarven female with black hair pushing her way forward through a small throng of her sisters. Her face bore the S-shaped scar of the exiles of her kind, but her bracers and tunic were testament to her acceptance here. Her large, brown eyes met his with a confident intensity even though the expression on her face was one of concern.

"Arishok," she said, "if you go to fight the darkspawn, our warriors will not be enough." She stepped forward further as he beckoned her and lifted her voice. There was the push of necessity there as well as a tinge of defiance. But defiance ran deep amongst dwarves, he knew, and so he allowed it to pass. "There are those of my kin still held prisoner in the south, captured at Kont-Aar and forgotten by your predecessor. They await conversion or trial, but it is my belief that their skills are best suited here—now-aiding you against the darkspawn."

He looked to the Arigena, and she nodded. "There are dwarves," she said that her voice might not carry beyond the ears of the Triumvirate, "captured some months ago as spies. They were considered prisoners of war. I was never instructed on what to do with them. They are surly but not irredeemable."

"Your suggestion is welcome," the Arishok replied clearly, turning back to the dwarven Ben-Hassrath. "And in this time of darkness and sacrifice, it is well appreciated."

The fastest route to the southern camps was by dragon flight. He had taken his leave as soon as he could, finishing his rounds of inspection and entrusting all he could of the training to his Kithshoks. As The sun began to set as the dragon dipped toward the sea. Arvaraad, the handler, maintained a steady and firm grasp on control, understanding the beast as well as any rider could understand his mount. There was a silent communication, a set of small gestures, whispered words, and forms of applied pressure. The great beast was as pliant between his knees as a horse was to any human, and the Arishok took confidence that the same could be done for others.

The seaside internment camp eventually came into view. The green earth was speckled with low white buildings and torchlight from guard posts. One would have expected a smell, an unsavory sort from unwashed bodies wallowing in filth, but there was no such thing. Only the murderous Tevinter _saarebas_ were treated so poorly, and they rarely survived long enough to stink.

They came in to land just north of the camp. It was a half-mile to walk from where the dragon was able to roost and Arvaraad monitor it, but the Arishok welcomed it. The dry, early winter air was cool now that the sun had dipped below the horizon. Guards nodded to him as he past, tiny, almost indiscernible gestures as they maintained their steady vigil. The _saarebas_ pits were quiet and dark. Blessings both. He had the urge to neither see nor hear the creatures that took pleasure in destruction and chaos.

The dwarves were housed in one of the low, thatched-roof dormitories. A _ben-hassrath_ posted outside unlocked the door at his request, and he ducked through the entrance. The space was clean and sparsely furnished. Each occupant had a cot and wash basin of carved wood and little else. They wore the white robes of _viddathari_ but were unassigned. Dwarves resisted _qamek_ as much as they did lyrium, and what the Arigena had said about them was already appearing to prove true.

They immediately banded into a defensive stance at his arrival, a female in front, instinctively reaching for a weapon that was no longer there.

"Finally here to pass judgment?" she demanded as much as asked in the trade tongue.

"Look at the horns on him," a gruff male beside her spoke up. "Think he's as stubborn as the ox he resembles?"

The Arishok gave a small half-smile even as the female elbowed her comrade in the ribs. "I certainly hope so." He crossed his arms over his chest, wiping away the smile and looking down at them as sternly as a Qunari should with _basra_. "I have it under good authority that you are skilled in fighting _vash—_ darkspawn."

"What's it to you?" another of the men muttered, fingers twirling in his thick scraggle of beard.

"A matter of honor," was the reply. "A necessary duty." His eyes narrowed still further. He scrutinized them, each and every one. They were all stout muscle and sinew, hair tightly bound and limbs tensed as if ready to bolt or fight at a moment's notice. There were a half-dozen of them, but he knew there were more in the adjoining buildings. A full score, Ben-Hassrath had said, all members of an order of specialized soldiers. "What it is to me is regaining a lost colony and justice for those slain, thousands fallen to the corruption of these...things. I have come to ask you a favor."

The female regarded him oddly, brown eyes blinking at him in disbelief, and it took her several tries to successfully shove a loose lock of dark hair behind her ear. She started to speak several times and then checked herself. Looking from the Arishok to her companions and back again, she finally found her voice after a long minute.

"What?"

"I have come to ask for your aid against the darkspawn in Kont-Aar," he rephrased patiently.

Her expression did not change. "You think asking us to do our job is asking us for a favor, _salroka_? Even if you get us out of here and let us loose on those 'spawn, we'll still owe you."

"Aye, and there's sure to be a catch," the hairy-faced fellow spoke up again. "Always is. You keep us as prisoners of war for months, preaching nonsense at us like we're supposed to believe it, and treat us like criminals when we tell you where to stick it. You _took_ us from Kont-Aar. I imagine you could have just left us there and you wouldn't be having this problem."

"Shut the hole in your face, Suran," the female admonished, hair falling into her eyes again. She didn't look away from the Arishok the whole while, measuring him up as much as he had her. "What is it that you want for our help, oxman? Even your kind doesn't expect something for nothing."

The Arishok shrugged. "Your aid. Nothing more. Killing is an art we are familiar with, but avoiding the taint of the Blight is another matter. Teach us how to combat it. Help us retake Kont-Aar. And you will be released back to fulfill your own duty in the Deep Roads."

Mouths hung agape. Eyes stared unblinking. One of the dwarves had long since gotten his fingers tangled in his beard and couldn't be bothered to wrench them free. The Arishok didn't wait for a response. He nodded a single time out of respect and turned to leave. He would give them the time to consider it if need be, but he had a feeling that wouldn't be necessary.

"What kind of Qunari are you?" The woman's voice followed him to the door. He turned in the open doorway, his eyes softer, face less stern. She was still skeptical, but there was hope brightening her face.

"One who has lived long among _basra_ ," he replied, stepping out into the night, "and knows we are not so different."


	64. Heart of a Pirate

The weeks passed in a blur of new routine. Sten was relentless in his training of the Vashoth Stenok, and Fenris helped where he could. The dwarves were released from their prison and set up near the barracks in their own set of apartments. For being so much smaller than kossith, they certainly gave the Qunari soldiers a run for their skill. They hefted armor and weapons better suited for beings twice their size and girth, but they used them expertly and to great effect. They were as equally quick and agile when they needed to be, drawing forth small blades to slash and skewer where brute force was impossible.

Isabela had watched with some interest during her free hours. It felt good to escape the confines of the _viddathok_ 's deeper levels and see things she never thought she would. There was little of her childhood that she could remember from before her father died, but the bits she did involved the culture of northern Rivain. She had learned the Qunari virtues, some of their principles, those things the Rivaini had clung to in spite of the Chant. Her mother had been the opposite, an Andrastian to the core, and when a young and confused Isabela had been sold into a marriage, any concept of "be free in who you are" took on the most contorted of meanings.

She was relearning it all, now, everything her father had meant in his carefree stoicism. It was making sense. She just wasn't too sure that _vashkata_ was quite what she was. The Deadly Shadow. Isabela was many things, but an assassin was not necessarily one of them. She killed when she had to, and she had killed many times. But she liked to look her prey in the face, enjoyed it more when they knew she was coming. The _vashkata_ of Par Vollen spent most of their time in the dark, skulking in the depths of the pyramid in what was known as the Labyrinth of Columns. It was a true but uncreative name, being the effective foundation for the massive structure. They learned greater stealth and reflexes, to use senses other than sight, and walk soundlessly on every imaginable surface.

Qunra was well aware of her discontent. Well. It wasn't discontent so much as a feeling of being out of place. The sensation was an odd one as she had spent much of her life skulking in shadows, cutting purses and picking pockets and stabbing the unwary in the back. The older woman had done her best to make Isabela feel at home in her role, but there was ever something off. Sunshine and the sea was what was best for her, and the _tamassran_ had been in talks with others. That's what Isabela was waiting for, now, sitting as she was in an open square near the military training grounds acting as Marian's eyes. Everyone else's purpose had been easy. That was always the way of it, wasn't it? Not even a nation—a _religion—_ that centered around such a concept could find a mold to fit the Rivaini in a perfect embrace. Not yet, anyway.

A shadow fell across the pavement before Isabela, long of limb and hornless. But the ears were curious. Glancing up, she was almost surprised to see Fenris standing there, his curious expression likely matching hers.

"Shouldn't you be at your...sewing lesson?" the elf asked hesitantly. He well knew how the issue had bothered Isabela from the start, even after they gave her daggers to work with, long thin things that she claimed were little different than needles in themselves. She had kept quiet when she realized the truth in how embroidery really had made her overall dexterity better. There was still her pride to consider.

"Not today," she replied. "I have the day to myself, so I'm helping Marian a bit. Poor thing can't leave the _viddathlok_."

"So Varric told me," Fenris confirmed with an almost imperceptible nod. "How is she taking it?"

"She says nothing and goes about her business. Swoop paws at the door and whines. I'm inclined to think the mabari has the truth of it."

Isabela got to her feet and brushed the creases from the black cloth of her trousers. She hadn't yet seen what she came to see, but she wasn't about to tell Fenris that. He might have understood, but if he had found her where she technically didn't belong, other warriors would, too. Not that she was hiding it. The bench was in the open in a public square. But, public or no, it was obvious a woman was intently watching the affairs of men and not just resting her feet. It would be an empty report today.

"The Arishok says we're almost ready," Fenris said, following the woman's gaze into the training yard. Qunari warriors sparred with each other using live steel. Now and then, dwarves would burst into view and attempt to flank them as if simulating darkspawn in the Deep Roads. "The soldiers are faster to react, quicker at avoiding tooth and blade. The likelihood of losing soldiers to the blight sickness is greatly diminished. However." He turned a little more and gestured toward the massive arena that was being used to house the fighting dragons instead of the usual blood sports. "Some of the beasts insist on remaining unruly."

"How do you mean?"

"The expected. They refuse to be tamed, allow no rider, won't breathe fire when commanded. Some we had luck with, surprisingly, but it isn't enough for the established tactics to work."

Isabela stared at the massive building, its curving architecture a beauty that tricked the unknowing observer as to the building's true purpose. Thousands of slaves had died violently upon the arena's sandy floor. Thousands more would likely follow in the years to come once the dragons no longer pawed at the ground with their massive claws and tugged at the thick chains that held them fast.

"What of those who transport back and forth between the settlements?" she asked, recalling how they had come to this city in the first place, that exhilarating journey through the sky.

"If we want fire, they aren't an option. The Qunari have...learned a great deal more about the inner workings of dragons than even the most astute Tevinter magister of old. The ones useful to us are those held captive for the games. The untamed ones."

The woman crossed her arms over her chest. "It makes me wonder how much different it is from breaking a horse. My father-"

"Isabela, these are _dragons_. Surely, you can't have forgotten fighting them in that forsaken pit near Kirkwall."

"Yes, and I also remember riding one to get here, and it was the most docile thing I'd ever seen. They aren't born docile. Something made it that way."

"An impotent fire gland, perhaps?"

"If that were the case, a new strategy is in order. What have they tried?"

Fenris let out an exasperated breath and began counting off the list on his fingers. The Qunari always handled like with like. For a coarse creature, they used rough handling as the primary means to an end. They had tried using the tamed dragons to show the others an example, but it had produced no results whatsoever. An animalistic shriek punctuated his remark that spears could keep them down and corralled, but it was not a lesson in obedience. If the plan was to loose wild dragons on the darkspawn and merely cause chaos, they were golden. But the retaking of Kont-Aar had no room for unpredictable variables. They needed trained dragons and those capable enough to control them.

"I want to see," Isabela said plainly once he was finished.

"Bela-"

She held up a finger to cut him off. "There is no arguing this. I have too much time and no purpose for it today. That makes me a bit frustrated with no tavern to drink myself blind. Do you really want me running around loose to see what sorts of trouble I can get myself into? Again?"

Her tone was sharp, but there was a glint in her brown eyes. Playful. Teasing. It was enough to relieve the tension in Fenris' shoulders. He nodded.

"Fine. And if you're being Marian's eyes for a bit, I'm sure the Arishok won't be...completely opposed."

They walked together over to one of the main entrances to the arena. Two Karasten were stationed at either side, unarmored but still armed with sword and shield should anything get out of hand. Fenris saluted them and explained their purpose.

"She has no business here," came the retort.

"Vashkata has an idea for the dragons that she wishes to propose to the Arishok."

"Speak, and we shall pass it on."

"It requires demonstration," Isabela spoke up, hoping that she would not come to regret those words. If there was one thing she had learned in her time here, it was that one was always taken at their word once it was given. "When I was a child in the baslands, my father trained horses. There were no finer mounts in Rivain than his. I'd tell you it was ultimately very easy to do, but I've noticed a distinct lack of horses around here." She pretended to be keenly interested in her fingernails, a smile quirking the corners of her mouth. "You wouldn't understand."

There was a derisive sniff, but the soldier said nothing. Instead, he kicked the door ajar with his heel and jabbed a clawed thumb over his shoulder. Fenris and Isabela passed in silence.

"If the Arishok is unhappy with a woman walking where she should not, I would hope a dragon to eat you first. Death is more painless than dishonor."

Isabela barely contained a snort and commented under her breath, "The Arishok owes me too much."

* * *

"You said it was easy!"

Isabela glared down at Fenris from where he stood with a swarm of other soldiers. Each was holding one of the four great chains tying down the midnight violet dragon she was astride, trying to keep it under control long enough for her to get the point across that she was master. The Arishok watched from one of the spectator boxes, one arm across his broad chest with the opposite elbow resting upon it. His fist covered his mouth, and the pirate found it impossible to tell if he were watching the scene with concern or trying not to laugh.

"I said _horses_ were easy!" she snapped back, digging her heels in to the soft scales that spanned between the dragon's front arms and its wings. She wrapped the reins about her hands a few times and tugged as hard as she could. The creature's head jerked backward, and it screamed in protest. It was still a young thing, not as large as the transport dragons but still of a beastly enough size that Isabela had to climb a ladder to reach the saddle. No stirrups and the leather was sized for a kossith. Regardless, there had been nothing in her life that came between her thighs that she couldn't tame, and she wasn't about to break that record now.

She reached out a hand to the leather of the wings, stroking the sinew of the arms before reaching around in front of her and running her fingers along the seam between the the hard scales of the dragon's back and the smoother, broad ones of its underbelly. It was the only way to actually touch the skin, to let the creature feel something other than the weight of iron shackles and the pressure of a rider. What was it her father had always whispered to the wild ones? She had never understood it. Not as a child and never until she'd heard it again in the streets of this very city.

Isabela pulled the reins just a little more until the ear slit was closer to her. Then, she met the dragon's one catlike eye and said, as gently as she could through gritted teeth, "Peace. Peace be in your soul and upon your mind. The wind is your brother. The earth is your mother. I am your sister, and for you—for you the sky is not the limit." The Qunlat flowed easily for her, now, and she took her father's words and made them her own, made them relevant.

The dragon blinked with its transparent eyelid and continued to stare at her. Its struggling eased and breathing became less labored. It ceased straining against her grip on the reins and instead crouched down upon the sand, head still held high, and folded its wings.

The soldiers stared in shock. The Arishok, also, had dropped his hand from his face. His brow was furrowed with confusion at what the pirate could have possibly done to accomplish even what she had. Isabela's own reaction was tense, her lips pressed together in apprehension as she let the reins go slack just enough that she had no worry of her hands breaking if there were a sudden tug. She swallowed before speaking.

"Remove the chains."

The men continued to stare up at her, dumbstruck and unhearing until one of them snapped to and nudged his brothers into action. They were quick about their work, unshackling the dragon and backing away as quickly as they could. And a good thing, too. The beast took to the air at once, Isabela screaming in surprise as the ground was left far behind in a matter of moments. The wind carried back with it a slew of curses as numerous as there were stars in the night sky, most of which were in fluent Rivaini.

All Isabela could do was dig her heels in, press her knees close, and lower her body forward until her torso was parallel with the dragon's spine. Her elbows braced against the creature's shoulder blades, and she held tightly to the reigns as much as she could. There was a salty taste in her mouth, but she didn't have time to worry about having bitten through her lower lip. She was a thousand spans above the city below, and her life was at the mercy of a thing none had seen in a ages and had only killed since. There was also the fire to consider.

"Calm down!" she shouted, hoping to be heard over the wind. "Calm down, you stupid thing before I have your gizzard for boots!"

The dragon dived at that. A sharp descent and quick. The breath caught in Isabela's throat as she found the rush of wind made it difficult to breathe. There was a shriek, a hard bank to the left, and the woman suddenly found herself clutching on for dear life as she was nearly turned entirely upside down.

"Peace be upon your soul and in your mind!" Isabela cried, pressing her face against the creature's back. "Peace—I am your sister, the wind is your brother! Let me guide you as he carries you!"

The dragon breathed a plume of flame as they passed near a watchtower that was loosing arrows at them. The Qunari archers ducked quickly, but it was certain the tower would need a new roof in the very near future.

"That's your game, is it?" the pirate snapped, jerking her head upward toward the crest of spines at the back of the dragon's skull. "You're just some dumb beast come back from a time of legend that knows how to use indigestion to its advantage?" She dug her heels in deeper, aiming for that fleshy seam between the scales. When she found it, she gave a kick to both sides and watched—and listened—as the dragon arched its neck back in protest and shrieked again. "You belch on _my_ command," she continued, tugging at the reins unforgivingly to punctuate her remarks. "You fly where _I_ want you to. Your brother carries you. Your sister guides you. Peace!" She pulled the reins hard to the right, dragging the creature's head in that direction and forcing it to bank.

The dragon certainly didn't like it. Much like those for a horse, the reins were attached to a bit that spanned the jaws, and tugging on them dug into the fleshy membrane of flesh in the joint. But pain was always an excellent deterrent when used properly. As a horse could be whipped to bring it into line, Isabela had found a similar thing that could be used to the advantage of the Qunari.

She was long in the air, spitting verbal commands in Qunlat at the same instant she dug in heels and tugged at reins, forcing the dragon to acknowledge a set of instructions that would allow any rider full control. It was not perfect—not by any means. The creature was a wild and rebellious thing, but that was all the more to Isabela's taste. She knew how to deal with wild and rebellious.

It was just the fire she couldn't quite get a handle on. Or the fishing. Several times as the sun began to slide toward the western horizon, the dragon dove toward the ocean, plummeting hard and fast into the choppy waves and resurfacing a moment later with a mouthful of wiggling, silver fish. Isabela had hardly had the chance to hold a breath before going under, and after five dunks, she was left soaking and irritated. And somehow...strangely amused.

"Lovely," she commented dryly, patting the dragon on the side of the neck. "Glad to see you know how to think with your stomach. Tell me, then. Do you have a taste for darkspawn?"

The dragon's head turned enough for one eye to focus on her, the slitted pupil narrowing in the green expanse. It huffed through its nostrils, smoke spilling out, before it turned back forward.

The ride immediately calmed. Isabela was left stunned as they commenced to glide gently through the air instead of feverishly banking and diving. They were far out over the water, the sun glittering upon the expanse of blue from behind them as they headed east toward Seheron. What had she said? _Vashun_? Why would that mean anything to a beast whose experience with verbal commands was associated most with pain and inconvenience? Had it been her tone? Her stubbornness in not letting go?

She tried the word again, speaking in smooth and soothing Qunlat. The head turned again, focused on her, then went back forward to keep to the flight path. East. Seheron. But beyond Seheron was Tevinter.

And Tevinter was where it supposedly all began.

"Flames!" Isabela cursed, pulling at the reins but not being rough about it. "Qunandar! We go back to Qunandar!"

The dragon made no effort to change course. Mashing her lips together, Isabela eased herself forward, lying flat against the scaly spine to be closer to the ear.

"We need you to help fight the darkspawn—but not in the east. Kont-Aar. They are in the mountains of Kont-Aar—Rivain. In Rivain."

The dragon snorted and shook its head much in the same way as a wet dog would. The metal fastenings of the reins jingled, but it was not a violent enough motion to even suggest that it was trying to break free. Somehow, there was coming to be an understanding between human and reptile. Isabela couldn't fathom how that even was, but she wasn't about to push her luck. She felt the wind shift and the dragon tilt beneath her. They were banking left and turning back around.

The setting sun guided them home.


	65. Sisters

Dragons became a common sight over Qunandar. That was until the Arishok thought better of it and moved the training operation out to the fields laying fallow for the winter. Marian heard about all of it from a gushing Isabela who was more animated than usual. The Rivaini had suddenly found herself assigned as Aqunaran at the Arishok's insistence. There had been _tamassrans_ that disagreed—what business had a man to decide such things?-but the council eventually caved to the proposition. Asari had added her voice. There could be no argument that Isabela had a natural talent for unit administration aboard a ship and, now, in the sky.

And nothing could have made her feel better.

"I will be leading them at Kont-Aar!" Isabela exclaimed, spinning around so that Marian could get the full view of her new uniform. Cropped crimson tunic and black trousers, bands of white cording tied about her arms denoting the new sky unit of the _antaam_. "They really only allowed it because it's the dragon that does the fighting, not me, but you should have seen it! The Arishok was absolutely adamant. And, here, I've been convinced that he didn't actually like me."

Marian's smile was proud. She knew that, through all this, Isabela had only stayed because of her. The pirate had chained herself to a debt with compounding repayments—all unnecessary. It was a relief that she was finding her own join in all of it, that fulfillment she'd never had. The _ben-hassrath_ contined to listen as her sister talked, a baby in her arms as she performed her own duties at the same time.

She had been assigned to the nursery to watch over the youngest of the Qunari children. Other women were with her, pulled from their normal ranks for the duration of pregnancy to put their instincts to use more than their talents. It was always the way: young mothers-to-be tending the youngest before passing them on to the _tamassran_ teachers with the birth of their own. No woman held her own child. No father knew if his progeny was born or miscarried. Only a strict circle of _asari_ knew.

It was always the way.

"But, enough about all that," Isabela breathed at last. "How goes the war in here?"

Marian shrugged with one shoulder. She was careful not to wake the child in her arms even as others squealed from across the room. It was an open space with a low ceiling. Toys lay scattered along the floor: wooden blocks of different shapes and sizes, strange puzzles that doubled as matching games, balls of dathrasi hide, and rings of pearl and ivory for teething. The Champion of Kirkwall was dressed the same as the other young mothers in a simple dress of sky blue cotton belted with a sash of rose. The belt was worn high as even Marian was beginning to show after only a couple of months.

"I'm done feeling sick, at least," she commented as Isabela took a seat on a cushion beside her. "Still unsure about the cloistering, but you and Asari make it a little easier. I just-" she abruptly switched to the trade tongue "-I just wish he could experience this, too. I remember how my father was waiting for the twins to be born and after." She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. "A father should know his children. But, I understand why this is." That last bit she finished in Qunlat.

"I'll wager it bothers you for other reasons. We're set to save the world again, and you have to stay home with the children." The pirate smirked playfully. "I'll be sure to tell you all about it. I'll have Varric draw pictures."

"Oh, of course," came the wry reply. "That's exactly what I've always wanted: a watercolor ogre charging straight at me."

"I was thinking more a watercolor Arishok destroying his enemies, but...to each her own."

The conversation turned to more lighthearted things, then. Marian didn't want to think of the dangers her soul would be in. _Soon, very soon_. A bad lung, temperance weakened by affection—she was sure rumors were flying about somewhere. But even as her mind kept trying to fall back into the bleak quagmire that the Blight and Kirkwall had long ago ingrained, Isabela was there to dispel it with her carefree chatter and sunny smile.

"Did you know," she was prattling on, "that Fenris' markings converge at his navel? He says the Tevene believe the soul resides there."

"...He told you about his navel?"

"No. I saw it."

"You're joking. Right?"

Isabela shook her head. "I swear, as I live and breathe."

"Was there drink involved?"

"A lot. Fortunately, not enough to make him forget. He's so sweet when he blushes."

Somewhere behind them, there was a crash and a cry. The voices of other babes joined the din, and the supervising Tamassran was hard-pressed to quell the sudden storm. Fright and fallen blocks. It didn't take much to disturb a sea of children.

"I should let you get back to playing nanny," Isabela commented with a wink. "You're a tough girl. You can handle it."

Marian snorted a laugh. "The last baby I helped raise was Bethany. And we know how that turned out." Green eyes dropped to the swaddled babe in her arms, the pink face of a human baby still calm in the charms of slumber.

The new-made Aqunaran gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze. "Bethany was an amazing woman—just like her mother and just like you. These children are all the better for it."

Then, without another word, Isabela lightly kissed Marian's brow and vanished from the nursery. She didn't return for weeks. She didn't return at all.

It was Asari that brought the next batch of news. It came with a rough draft of Caught in Qunandar "for the silent moments" and a class of chilled dathrasi milk mixed with a little of the animal's blood. Every woman expecting was given the drink for strength and for the health of the child. Marian had asked why for the first several times she'd had to gulp it down with trepidation and a sour expression.

"Why do you think kossith are so tall?" was Asari's matter-of-fact reasoning.

Today, Marian drank without complaint, going through the motion expected of her having long gotten over the strangeness of it all. The young _tamassran_ took away the cup once it was empty.

"They leave with the tide," she stated quietly, concern glinting in her golden eyes. "The ships are being made ready as we speak."

Marian's heart fell to the floor, pulling the rest of her with it. She felt herself go chill and pale. Her hands shook, and she grabbed at the edges of her cushion to try to control it.. Her vision was spinning. Sickening and dimming to blackness and sparks. She was inwardly cursing that mysterious change in her body that made her want to cry at everything, to lose control over her senses to such an irrational degree that she was fit to faint away. Every fiber of her being, in that moment, wished she had been born a man.

"Might I see them off?" she asked hopefully, her voice cracking.

"You know there is to be no contact," Asari replied lowly, kneeling to wrap the other in her strong arms. She understood the intention even though it wasn't spoken. "Not until you are able to resume your normal duties. He cannot be allowed to see."

"What about Isabela? Could she relay a message?"

Asari shook her head.

Marian's gaze fell to Swoop. The mabari lay on his back, happily panting, tongue lolling as giggling toddlers rubbed his belly. The _ben-hassrath_ couldn't find it in her to smile at the scene. Instead, she whistled shrilly between her teeth. With a huff and a grunt, Swoop rolled over and got to his feet. He trotted over to his mistress and promptly nudged her hand for a scratch behind the ear.

"Swoop will go," she said. "But not just to the docks. He will go with the others to Kont-Aar. He is a proven bane to the darkspawn...and there is none better to safeguard my soul."

The dog whined a little as he sensed Marian's distress. Despite the front she was trying to maintain, it was impossible to hide her anguish from the one creature that knew her best in the world. He heard his instructions. He gently licked her palm. And, then, he set off down the corridor at a light canter. Marian watched him until a bend took him out of view. It wasn't the mabari she was worried for. She had seen him fight darkspawn and worse since his youngest days. It was everyone else. Every _thing_ else. She hadn't been privy to the preparations since before the Festival. Everything she knew came through Isabela. Dragons, Legionnaires, Fenris being an unteathered lyrium ghost. None of it changed that the Qunari had never before faced darkspawn, sheltered as they were by their island home.

There was doubt in her heart that what they planned would be enough.

Supporting her around her waist, Asari took her to a terrace that had a view of the docks. There didn't seem to be enough ships—only three—and she couldn't see the dragons at all. Only the masts were visible from this distance, and the dark throng at the promenade could have been the shadows of buildings as easily as a crowd. Men worked rigging. Marian was certain she recognized the mastheads of the _Hawke's Flight_ , but she didn't see how that was possible. She could barely see. She couldn't hear. She couldn't understand.

"What's happening?"

"It's as I said. They leave with the tide. Sunset will see them at the _aqunvaraad_. From there, duty and purpose will carry them."

"And what do we do?" The words came out clipped, almost angry, muted only by gritted teeth.

"We wait, sister," Asari said sadly, holding the other close. "We wait and remember that there is no struggle. Victory is in the Qun."


	66. Justice

Everything was going according to plan. Mostly. The dog was a surprise. The Arishok had suddenly found Swoop panting and leaning against the thick trunk of his leg. They seemed to stare each other down for a moment. Then, the giant of a kossith reached down and scratched the mabari behind his ears.

Varric looked on from where he sat on a low crate, stylus in hand and journal open upon his lap. He and two other _ashkaari_ were being sent to chronicle the battle with the darkspawn of Kont-Aar. No embellishment. Just the facts. Asari had slipped Varric his personal journal from Kirkwall with a wink. History could be both useful and riveting. But there was no denying that, sometimes, even the Qunari would just want to hear a good story. A tale of victory. The accounts of an Arishok leading an army unto certain death to ensure the continued safety of everyone else. The bold exploits of tragic heroes coming together to rid the land of a festering pestilence.

He paused, his stylus hovering over a half-finished word. His fingers twitched. He sniffed and swallowed a mouthful of irony. He hadn't needed to embellish any of that to make it sound impressive.

They left with the tide and reached the naval barricade by nightfall. The looming row of dreadnauts stretched on to each horizon, a seemingly endless wall of doom to any of whom had no business crossing its boundary. A forest of masts pierced the sky, and banners blazoned with the House of Tides hung amidst the stars. The dim glow of brazier fires illumined the tiny faces of those aboard but weren't so bright as to be seen from a great distance. It was only the second time Varric had seen the sight, and he found himself tremendously grateful that they were all on the same side.

The ships the Arishok brought were smaller. Two were manned by Vashoth Stenok and other selected warriors. Another was stocked with supplies. The fourth was more of a barge transporting the dragons and Isabela's _karataam_. Varric found himself on little more than a schooner that very well could have been captured from Antiva. He was with the non-combat units, the _gaatlok_ makers and field medics. Asari should have been among them. Hell, Hawke should have been with the Arishok all dressed up for war.

But that wasn't likely to be, now, was it?

No one but Isabela and Asari had seen Hawke in months. Neither was talking. Varric squinted down at his journal as he tried to read and write a bit before things got too hairy. He wasn't sure what it meant that the protagonist in this epic journey had suddenly changed. Or had it? For the better part of a decade, his focus had always been on Hawke. Maybe this chapter was meant to have a different cast of heroes.

They dropped anchor when alongside the barricade. A rope ladder was lowered from the nearest dreadnaut and messengers exchanged. These same messengers then traversed between the decks of the Arishok's entourage by rope and plank, nimble as acrobats. Whatever news there was to be spread moved faster than the wind. Rumors in Kirkwall weren't even so efficient. It wasn't much longer before troops were transferred...and medics, and anyone else that served a purpose until Varric found himself surrounded by more soldiers than sailors.

Fortunately, Fenris was among them to be the target of all the dwarf's questions. He didn't like the answers.

"Slavers got through," the elf snarled almost under his breath. "The _aqunvaraad_ has been diligently monitoring the channel. But a message got here from Seere. The slavers came overland from Ayesleigh. The Arishok is sending us after them." He motioned to the captain that all that needed to be were aboard. The anchor cranked up out of the sea. Sails unfurled and caught the night wind. In minutes, their small schooner was pulling away from the main body of the navy and running parallel with the coast into the east.

"He can't do this," Varric replied, practically frantic as he dashed to the railing of the stern. "He doesn't have enough men as it is!"

"He has enough for now," Fenris returned. He was calmer now that they were moving, though his face still held the anger of a man long forced to watch the wrongs of the world.

"Why didn't one of the dreadnauts-"

"I insisted. There is at least one in Seere to whom we owe a great debt. They would send magisters."

Varric nodded. He didn't need to hear any more. They knew of the Arishok's return to Seere when he was still Taarbas, the problems already boiling there. Brigands were the first sign. Slavers would never be far behind. And there wasn't anything a Tevinter magister coveted more than the abilities of the Rivaini hedge witches. Isabela had made that abundantly clear.

"Am I just along to write about it?"

Fenris turned and gave a whistle through his fingers. A soldier eventually came rushing up to them with a wrapped bundle in his hands. Oilcloth. Tightly bound in twine. Fenris nodded in respect as he took the parcel and cut the bindings with a small knife. He then handed it over to Varric to unwrap. The weight and shape gave it away long before his eyes fell upon the rosy cherry wood, the iron fastenings, the gleaming bronze filigree.

"The Arishok wanted to return her to you himself," Fenris explained. "I hope you don't mind."

* * *

The winds were with them as they rounded the peninsula. For two days they had sailed. For two days they had only slept in short spurts. Adrenaline and urgency carried them as much as the wind and waves. Hardly anyone had spoken beyond gruff orders to adjust tack or call to mess. Thoughts were on one thing. Well, two if you happened to be a born-and-bred Qunari. The first was that brothers and sisters were potentially being enslaved by the Enemy. The second was _saarebas_. And not in the usual manner. They were being sent to rescue these ones. Only Varric didn't seem to be bothered by this.

They dropped anchor within a small inlet before they came within sight of Seere. Slavers were generally arrogant fools, but they weren't completely inept. Scouts would be everywhere, watches posted anywhere with a good line of sight. Any halfwit would know the dangers of the land they hunted in. The trip to shore was short and wet. No one bothered with the longboat, most of the thirty soldiers choosing to swim the distance with their swords carefully wrapped and bound to their backs. The medics followed behind with their boxes of supplies bobbing along with them. Only Varric hesitated.

Fenris rested a hand on his friend's shoulder, the dwarf teetering on the edge of the deck. Bianca was back in her oilcloth. His journal was the same. He just couldn't remember the last time he had to swim for any reason...which was probably never...because he didn't think he could actually swim at all even if his life depended on it.

"I'll carry you," the elf said in an easy tone. "Just steady yourself and breathe."

Fenris nimbly lowered himself over the side, arms and legs working their way down the rope ladder until he was treading water below. What did salt water do to leather armor, anyway? Varric didn't have the time to mull it over. Gulping back his fear, he began the descent, keeping as close to the warm wood of the hull as he could. It stank of pitch and algae and stale brine. Heat stored from the sun radiated off, making the coolness of the water that much more of a shock when he reached it. His teeth instinctively chattered. Whether it was from the cold or building dread, he had no clue.

As promised, the elf carried him to shore, one strong arm about his ribs while the other paddled as feet kicked. It felt further than it looked, a hundred yards, no more, but the shore seemed to take an age in coming. The others were patiently waiting for them, taking the opportunity to check and prepare their weapons and supplies. No one complained. No one made jokes or poked fun at the dwarf that couldn't even float. The Sten leading them merely nodded with a ghost of a smile and motioned the others forward.

They fell into ranks along the shoreline then single-file as they cut through a narrow path into the jungle. This land was known to them, never truly lost despite the Exalted Marches and the stubbornness of the Chantry in the times since. No one spoke. No one questioned. No one slowed their pace even for the lone dwarf among them. Varric knew the drill by now. The first journey to Kont-Aar had not been any different.

The Sten brought them to a halt when the palms and undergrowth began to thin. Varric took the opportunity to catch his breath and take in where they were. It had truly been a wonder that the foliage hadn't slowed them at all. But, then again, their path hadn't been straight, either. They had wound their way through the jungle as a stream without the strength to carve its own route. But the path had never been for pleasure walks. The hoof prints left by goats were sign enough of that.

Where they stood now had a view of the ruined city, the tiers carved from the mountain and long-abandoned mansions. The Chantry sat empty, banners torn down and only shreds left to blow in the breeze. The dock was still full of ships, but any number of them would soon be commandeered to get the slaves back to the Imperium or Antiva or wherever the destination market was. Sten took only a moment to take it all in then split his men into three groups to infiltrate the town.

Varric stuck close by Fenris, the two remaining with the Sten as he led them through the northeastern districts and down towards the fishing village. The closer they got to the market square, the more disorderly things became, the louder the shouting grew. Barking men, shrill women, screaming children. It almost sounded like Darktown.

The curiosity came when the soldiers ducked into houses uphill of the square to get a better look. The other soldiers found perches of their own and signaled silently across the gap. Everyone was in place for whatever plan there was to enact. By this point, Varric had a pretty good idea that Sten was just running off the seat of his pants. Not a bad plan, all things considered, but surprising.

Unless the Qunari did things like this so much they had even the impromptu down to a science.

That was a scary thought.

Varric also had a pretty good idea that the people of Seere didn't need as much saving as originally thought. Not entirely, anyway. A lot of the shouting and screaming had been on the part of the slavers, a circle of women in the middle of the square holding off the invaders with staves and spells. Weakening spells. The likelihood of them having been fighting for days was intensely strong. Others were fighting, too. Anyone that could wield an ax or net or shiv was going after the Tevene like sleep was for the weak and you'd get plenty of it once you were dead.

And there were many dead. For all their tenacity, the Rivaini were losing without all the Qunari soldiers that had been called back while the other Arishok still held command. A ghost of a _karataam_ was left, and those men fought in armor slashed and broken and almost useless.

Inside the circle of witches huddled the elderly and children. Varric caught sight of Adda among them, the dark-haired crone glaring balefully at the adversary while urging the younger spellcasters on.

"Grandmother, we are spent!" the dwarf could hear one of them shout, gasping and clasping a hand to her mouth even as she said it. It was poor strategy to reveal any weakness to the enemy, but the Tevene hardly seemed to notice. Regardless, Sten needed no other urging. He motioned his warriors into the fray, a booming chorus of Qunari war cries echoing back from the mountain. The slavers were taken aback, the villagers just as shocked but recovering quickly. The aid was for them. Their brothers had arrived.

Varric took up post in a window, priming Bianca and relishing the feel of her cocking ring in his hand again. His first gift to the slavers was a bursting shot (augmented with _gaatlok_ apparently...that was new) to the center of their ranks. He followed that up with a hail of bolts as they tried to scatter.

Adda rose in the middle of it all, smoothing a child's hair to keep him calm as the others scooted closer together. She had told them something. They were moving as one, hunkering down as if to get out of the way, ducking their heads and turning eyes to the ground. The old woman moved around the circle, speaking into the ear of each Rivaini witch and receiving a single nod in return. They stopped casting and sat, legs crossed and hands across their knees. One by one, they fell into a trance. It was at that point that Varric really wished he could have paid more attention because what happened next bordered on phenomenal.

The circle of women exploded.

Well...not exploded like an ogre exploded. They became suddenly and completely consumed with blinding light accompanied by a concussive force so great that it knocked nearly everyone off his feet and shook the walls of the stone house Varric hid in. It was deafening in its silence. The whole village...silent. Then, there was a murmur, a low ruckus. When Varric was able to blink his eyes clear of spots, he could only gape at what he saw.

The women floated in the air, just a little, their toes cushioned by mist and pale light. Their eyes burned with more of the same, robes and dresses billowing. There was the tang of ozone and the powerful metallic taste of lyrium in the air itself.

"You have trespassed where you do not belong, slavers," Adda boomed, though it was not with her voice. It was deep, loud, masculine in its timbre even as it mingled with her own. Cracks of blue light coursed along her skin and glared from her eyes. Blue flames licked at her even as they did not touch her, and Varric found himself gulping once more. "You will not take another mage. You will not touch another _soul_." She gathered the fire together in her hands and wound it above her head into a great ball flashing with magical lightening. "Not while there is still justice in this world!"

"And courage!" one of the other witches called out as she, too, gathered the very essence of the Fade around her.

"And purity!"

"And honor!"

Raw power lashed out, snaking through the throngs of people and finding targets only in the invaders. Qunari looked on in poorly veiled horror as magic brushed passed them, touching them, making hair stand on end and teeth grind with sudden, electric chill. But none of them were harmed. The Tevene, on the other hand, were not anywhere near so lucky. The magic flowed into them—mage and soldier alike—filling them, burning them, melting them from the inside, blasting them from where they stood to lay in charred and barely recognizable heaps several yards away.

A great cry rose up and was suddenly silenced. The storm of magic came to as abrupt an end as it had begun, and when Varric looked again, the women still floated in their circle, Adda just outside.

"You will never...never take another mage."

_No. No, it couldn't be._

Sten took a cautious few steps forward and knelt at the woman's feet, pressing his forehead to the sand-strewn pavement. Whatever he said was inaudible, spoken more to the dirt and obviously not meant for all ears. But Adda heard. Adda was meant to hear. And she nodded.

"I am the justice of the Blackmarsh, the vengeance of the circle. I am a bane to the darkspawn and will be guardian to the Qunari. On my honor, it is so."

Yep. It was Blondie. Had to be. And just as dramatic as ever.

The Arishok was going to love this...


	67. Brothers in Arms

The abandoned city of Kont-Aar was quiet. Deceptively quiet. The Arishok's eyes were narrowed as he and his soldiers trudged up the long beach to the west of the docks. He had waited to give the _karataam_ sent to Seere some time to return. There was no way he would risk this operation on even worse odds than he had set for himself.

Dwarves trudged alongside him, the Legion of the Dead insistent on being the first to scout the area to see how things had changed since they were last here. It was wise. For they also knew the enemy far better than any others in the entire _antaam_. The dark-haired female brusquely issued orders when they got close, heavily armored Legionnaires scattering in all directions. She turned to the Arishok.

"While the sun is out, we have time. My men are going to be checking buildings for the bolder ones, the ones that didn't scuttle back to the dark caves and sewer tunnels." She pointed at the _viddathlok_. "That place is likely crawling with them."

The Arishok inhaled a very deep, stiff breath through his nose. His chest swelled, rust red warpaint sparkling with sweat. He held the breath longer than he needed to in some futile hope that it would calm him. The _viddathlok_ had been clear during their last visit. He had been hoping to use it as their base of operations, bottleneck the darkspawn when they attacked at night. Four men abreast and no ogre could hope to fit through the door.

"The priority is the _viddathlok_ ," he replied at last. "Check the square and search its bowels. Our victory depends upon it being safe."

The dwarf nodded sharply and jogged off after her fellows. They had proven worthy allies, training the Qunari soldiers better than any could have hoped. They taught of genlocks, hurlocks, ogres, and even of the mabari resistance to the taint. There was a deep-seated regret in the Arishok's mind that Swoop was the only hound they had.

When they reached the main plaza, he found himself regretting something else entirely.

What remained of the Vashoth Stenok that had guarded Asari as she retrieved her notes lay upon the ground. Bodies broken. Bones scattered. They were victims of death and darkspawn, disgrace and the devilish heat. Armor lay stained with blood and bleached by the sun and time. What flesh still clung was shriveled and black, the flies long disinterested in what remained.

The first thing the Arishok did was gather their swords.

"Arishok!" a voice came suddenly, a grating burst through a hallowed silence. A kossith jogged up beside him and boldly placed a hand to his shoulder. "Arishok, that is not your duty."

He glanced over from where he knelt to see the black boots, the dark trousers, the scarlet embroidered sash with the hash marks. He slowly rose with an armload of rusting blades.

"It is the duty of every man here, Taarbas. You are a retriever of souls, and I trust that you will take these back safely along with any others that might fall. But these men—these Qunari—are the only reason why Kont-Aar had any survivors at all. They were our brothers, and we _all_ owe them this honor."

He was the Kithshok who had been banished. The Taarbas who had overthrown corruption. He had earned the respect of every soldier there over the past several months—even those who had sided with his betrayer. They would follow him into the flames. They would follow him as he performed the task of those least among them. _Taar eb-asala_. They remembered what it really meant.

Taarbas took the blades to a safe place by the docks, securing them in one of the abandoned crates and marking it with the symbol of the House of Tides. The bodies they left as they were. They were no longer their brothers. No longer of any concern. But their still lying as they were gave the Arishok some hope that the darkspawn were not still inhabiting the city. For did not the other _basra_ pillage and steal, vandalize and destroy? Kont-Aar was silent and undisturbed, as if the thousands of souls that had lived there merely vanished. It was deceptive even though he knew better. _Vashun_ were not _basra_. He was a fool to even think so.

A shrill whistle sounded from the steps of the _viddathlok_. Shooting his gaze upward, he caught sight of one of the dwarves waving frantically down to them. The faint sounds of metal on metal echoed out from within. An unnatural, monstrous scream followed.

The _viddathlok_ was no longer empty.

* * *

"What do you suppose is taking them so long?"

Isabela was making her rounds of the dragon barge, helping one of her fellow riders feed their mounts. All they had was salted dathrasi meat, but the beasts didn't seem to mind. Some ate it raw and cold. Others smoked or roasted it, first. Isabela's dragon, whom she had taken to calling Pearl (what pirate in her right mind wouldn't sell her soul for a black pearl?), sniffed the meat almost derisively before licking at it with a forked tongue. When she snatched it away at last, it was almost with the woman's hand as part of the deal.

"Aqunaran, you know the Arishok is-"

"I'm not talking about the Arishok. I mean Karasten and the others that went to Seere." She shielded her eyes as she looked out over the eastern horizon, hoping to see sails there. "They should be back by now."

The warrior came to stand beside her, a human who had been born on Par Vollen but was darkly skinned like her own people of Rivain. Whether it was by blood or the sun's doing, she had no true way of knowing.

"They will return, Aqunaran. And, if not, their souls will be sent for. It is to be."

"Are you people always this pragmatic?" Isabela huffed, turning on her heel and making for where she could see the city beyond. There were troubles there, too. The soldiers had rushed the pyramid and had yet to come out. A runner had brought the news. Darkspawn. _We should be out there_ , she fumed to herself. _They need our help._ He _needs our help. Hawke will never forgive me otherwise._ But they had been given their orders. Nearly four hundred Qunari soldiers filled the extensive corridors of the _viddathlok_. If eight wayward souls could save the city of Denerim from certain doom, a single _karataam_ could clear a building.

"It is to be," she breathed, echoing words she'd long rebelled against.

Sometimes, there was nothing one could do but weather the tide.

* * *

Varric loosed another hail of arrows into the thick underbrush. Cries rose up. Foliage burst into flames. Genlocks went dashing off for the nearest fox holes. Scores of darkspawn lay dead along the road between Seere and Kont-Aar. Fenris matched Adda blue flame for blue flame, both burning lyrium like it was all that carried them. And it wasn't even time for lunch, yet.

But that wasn't the best part.

Not a single Qunari had fallen, and they had just about every able body from the Rivaini settlement that knew how to use a weapon. And some that didn't. An old farmer was along with nothing more than a shovel, but no one had the courage to argue with him that he was better off staying home. They hadn't been forced to go over land, but Adda insisted it would be the most advantageous route. It was also the more dangerous route, but as Varric lobbed a _gaatlok_ grenade Asari had given him deep into the trees, he conceded the point. It helped to clear the enemy from the Arishok's flank. It was also the most fun he'd had in months. Months. There was only so much copying of the Tome of Koslun one dwarf could take.

The creatures eventually stopped coming. They had either retreated back to their caves or the marauding party was completely annihilated. There were none among them that would allow themselves to think the latter, but they gave each other smiles and congratulations anyway. Morale was a fragile thing.

They kept moving, that same swift pace as before. They had been on the road since the previous morning and had long since passed the walled compound of the Vashoth Stenok. The few men that remained there had been only too eager to join them. They had brothers to avenge and honor to reclaim. Varric suspected that the mountain pass would be the next obstacle, but the sun, even for the dead of winter, was too intense for the rotting flesh of the enemy. The tropical climate was a blessing in disguise in that way.

Water was shared as they ran. Hard bread was passed around in the same manner. There was no time to stop, no time to even breathe. The Rivaini witches, possessed as they were, somehow kept everyone going, even the old farmer. They embodied the Fade in ways no abomination ever could. The spirits did not desire the mages' power. Theirs was a different sort of motivation.

"Kont-Aar!" one of the fore-running Karashoks announced, pointing with his spear out across the urban plain that spread out below them. The Arishok's ships could be seen further up the coast. The city itself was still as pristine as the last time they had been here. But they knew better than to believe that.

At least Varric and Fenris did.

And maybe Adda. She was scowling with a look so hateful the ocean itself probably could have caught fire.

"I smell them," she snarled with the deep voice of Justice. "Like a foul wind." She turned about, taking in as much of the surrounding area as she could. The other witches did likewise, wispy tendrils of Fadelight licking at the air. "We haven't much time."

"Then we move," the Sten leading them barked, raising an arm to wave his men forward. " _Ataash varin kata! Anaan esaam Qun_!"

And not even the brightness of the sun could shine through that deepest darkness into which they now knew they plunged.

* * *

The library was awash with blood. Genlocks had overrun the place led by an occasional hurlock, and the Legionnaires led a systematic cleansing sweep of the massive building. It culminated here at the heart of it all, darkspawn invaders penned in by the returning owners of this temple of knowledge. The Qunari were relentless and unforgiving. Sten of Ferelden remained close to the Arishok as the one most experienced of the soldiers while the others pushed and pushed their enemy to the point of no return. The steel of his _asala_ sang as it took off the head of a hurlock alpha, the body unceremoniously kicked away and the hornless kossith moving on to another.

The Arishok was as much on the offensive as his brother. Staareth bit through weak flesh and borrowed armor while the sharp point of the Amell shield did damage all its own. He remembered to side-step as Fenris had taught him, avert his eyes as the dwarves insisted. There was no sure way to avoid infection, but there was no shortage of preventative measures.

Swoop growled at his feet and lunged, tearing out the throat of a genlock archer that had managed to find the warrior's blind spot. His hand tightened about the grip on the back of the shield, and he allowed himself a grim smile. Even in her absence, Marian was able to protect him. A good thing. Death was not an option. Not when her honor depended so heavily on him.

It wasn't much longer before the last of the darkspawn was dead. Bodies lay all over the stone floor and sprawled across study tables, leaking a putrid black blood. The Legionnaires quickly moved in and dragged them away, shoving them into a study room and throwing in a torch. The room was then sealed off for the fire to consume itself once the taint had been cleansed. Nothing could be done about the blood.

"Is everyone alright?" Sten called out. "Any scratch, anything in the eye, in the mouth, any wound at all requires immediate treatment." There was murmuring all around but no definitive replies. "Asari! See to the wounded."

The Arishok took a look around the space, the towering rows of shelves still miraculously undisturbed despite darkspawn occupation and the scuffle that just happened. Whatever it was that drove the creatures, the mundane wisdom of the world was not it. Still, they were here and in untold numbers. He prayed what they had was enough.

"We have two that will need the remedy," Sten reported, keeping his voice low for his commander's ear only. "I am told that it is as likely to kill them as heal them. I shall...see that they are taken aside."

A shallow nod was the only reply. Two out of the fifteen in the library. There were hundreds of others elsewhere in the building, elsewhere in the city claiming a strategic holding point. And how many of them suffered from a single speck of stray blood or a simple cut? This Blight sickness was no simple disease. Whatever it was, a demon was tame in comparison.

He gazed up at the sky turning golden with the late afternoon light. He had long ago taught himself not to feel such a thing as dread. A warrior could not be weakened in the face of any enemy no matter how daunting. But he felt a shiver, then, a chill that only came with facing something worse than an enemy one knew.

And that was an enemy unknown.


	68. To Victory

The wait for nightfall felt interminable. He was not one for moving speeches, not the sort that could rouse the crowd with a stunning display of vocal leadership. But the Arishok realized that he needed to do no such thing to rally his men and bolster their morale. Finally seeing what had become of the colony had opened eyes long blind. No one was anything less than diligent when it came to the necessary preparations.

The Legion of the Dead had gone deep down into the foundation of the pyramid, seeking out any tunnel entrances the darkspawn might have made for themselves and would continue to use. They either had to be sealed or guarded, trapped if all else failed. The Kithshoks had established a war council in the great hall, spreading out what maps they could find from the library upon the floor to plan strategies. With the whole of the vast city laid out before them, they still only had one true avenue of recourse, and that was to hold fast, keep to the _viddathlok_ , and make the darkspawn come to them.

But that plan would only work for so long.

The creatures were still intelligent, Sten urged. They knew how to starve out their foes, to wait for them to become desperate. They did not have the same needs as man or dwarf, elf or kossith. They had the time and the patience of ages. Their magic was another issue. It stank of Tevinter practice but was far older and darker than anything the Qunari had yet encountered. It, more than anything, is probably primarily why Kont-Aar fell. Not even the _saarebas_ were equipped to handle it, and it left everyone vulnerable.

The _saarebas_ they had with them were few. A small number against untold foes. It was all Par Vollen and Seheron combined could spare. It would have to do.

The storm was long in gathering. The earliest of the spring rains rolled in off the sea to the northwest, thrusting the empty city into near darkness early and without the slightest trace of a sunset. _Gaatlok_ cannons positioned on the pyramid's terraces were covered with oilcloth to preserve the powder for whenever the clouds were ready to release their bounty.

Silence fell with the dark. There was none who wished to spark the demons' ire or attract attention until absolutely necessary.

The Rivaini witches had not entirely been expected. Varric and Fenris reached the Arishok just before the last bit of daylight vanished, aiding their unit's Sten in the presentation of the spirit-possessed allies. Only Adda was recognizable to him and, despite the glowing eyes and electric presence harbored within her, she was a welcome sight, indeed. It was she that detailed their journey and laid out recommendations on their use to the _antaam_. Those spirits they carried were the virtues most needed to restore the ruin, but they were still fragile and few.

They would be held in reserve with the dragons, a tactic prolonged in the conceived attempt of drawing as many of the creatures out as they could...and then smiting them swiftly. They could afford no error for, as Sten of Ferelden reminded them, there would be the broodmother. At least one, and likely one for each race of woman captured. When the time came, they could afford no break in resolve.

Downpour.

Cannonfire heralded the first wave.

The Arishok signaled his men into motion, columns thundering through the halls in echo of the raging storm. They halted at the two entrances, four men abreast, and braced themselves. Shields to the shoulder, swords at the ready, they squinted through the rain to locate the enemy their fellows had already spotted. Light from within poured out around them. Oil troughs along the streets burned brightly, the rain harmless against the fueled flames. They had spent all the time they had in preparation, and this would be the telling moment.

Crowds of darkspawn roiled at the plaza's perimeter. They snarled and bellowed, ogres great among their numbers. Iron shot fired from the cannons fell heavily upon them, but they held fast despite the screams and burning stench of first blood. Light still bothered them, but it was not, and never could be, a reliable deterrent. A small handful of hurlocks stepped forth, one raising a brutal greatsword high in the air. He shouted a command. Slurred and distant, it was still recognizable as the trade tongue. From his position next to the Arishok, Sten tensed, his lips pulled back in a grimace.

"She had written of these," he said lowly to his commander. "The Warden told me there were darkspawn cut off from the main horde, no longer in thrall of their lizard gods. They are more dangerous in their intelligence and insanity, but also the weaker for it. Normal darkspawn creatures act and think as a hive of bees. These ones think as men...smarter but self-serving."

The Arishok nodded and raised a hand. Two of his fingers pointed skyward and made a small and quick circular motion. The answer was the whispering creak of leather as a score of archers took up position above them, drawing back viciously pronged arrows and leveling them at the swarming mass below.

A volley was loosed into the night. Swift. Silent. The deadly prongs found their homes in the sea of corruption below. Before the first even had the chance to strike, a second wave sprang from taut strings. Twenty archers became fifty and then a hundred. In tandem with the cannons, death rained from above.

And yet, the darkspawn didn't seem to be bothered. It was as if they were waiting for something...something certainly unknown. Had their apparent leaders not just given a rallying cry? Ogres pawed at the ground. Genlocks cranked crossbows into readiness but did not loose. The enemy waited at the fringes of light and accepted the barrage that came. It mattered little to them.

A Kithshok signaled, and the cannons were reloaded with a different kind of shot. When fired, the balls of iron blazed through the sky with that same blinding white as the _viddathlok_ 's light trenches. The sky lit up like the dawn for a long moment that made the darkspawn hold deathly still, bloodshot eyes gazing up at the earthly comets come plummeting toward them. Their numbers were more visible, then. The whole city teemed with misshapen bodies, and all the fire and shot had done little to thin their ranks. This latest development made them rethink what little strategy they appeared to have.

" _Gaateva!_ " the Kithshok cried out to his artillery unit when he saw the darkspawn frantically try to escape the sudden chemical quickfire. "Into the heart of them, brothers!"

Another round set the entire plaza and surrounding streets to burning. The hurlock alphas were suddenly in no mood to wait for whatever it was that had held them back. With unintelligible roars, they pointed their weapons toward the pyramid, a dozen ogres breaking through the line to answer the call.

Arrows flew. Grenades exploded. The boom of cannonfire echoed back from the mountains. Before they even had a chance to reach the foundation, all but two of the massive beasts lay dead. The survivors continued to charge completely unhindered by the loss of their own. Up the steps they clambered, brushing off the thick arrows that showered down.

Fenris gritted his teeth when he saw his fellow soldiers close ranks tighter. _No, you fools!_ he fumed to himself. _That is only asking for death._ Shoving his way around the mass of bodies to reach the entrance, the bounded down the steep steps with gathering speed, gravity on his side. The ogres barely noticed him as anything more than just another gnat come to swarm them. With a leap, he ignited his lyrium markings and the Sword of Mercy at the same time, gripping it tightly over his head with both hands. A snarl contorted his mouth in anticipation as he ghosted and sliced his way clean through the first ogre before coming down on the breastplate of the second. Mercy ate its heart as he twisted the blade within the blighted purple flesh.

The archers covered him until Fenris could reach the safety of the entryway again, his commanding Sten giving him a stern look but an approving nod.

"Never let them get close," the elf replied, uncaring. His breath came in heavy pants as he took up position again with his fellows. "And never stay clustered when they do."

If only it were so easy.

The wait of the darkspawn was at an end. With the air thick with smoke and saltpeter, a glow not of fire swelled and erupted from within their main force. Putrid green and deadly orange, the creatures revealed the deadliest among them. Emissaries. The tainted mages gathered power to themselves while guarded by a full battalion of shrieks and genlock archers. As the spells deployed, the genlocks let loose their own hail of arrows that would have blotted out the sun had it been present. The shrieks seemed to vanish into thin air as the crowd thinned before them.

"Shit," Varric cursed from his position with the Qunari archers. He loaded Bianca as quickly as he could and loosed bursting shot out into the darkspawn ranks. "Shrieks are bad, sir!" he called out to the Kithshok. "Like _vashkata_ -overdosed-on- _saar-qamek_ bad!"

"I see nothing!"

"That's _why_ they're bad!"

They took cover as the vicious darkspawn arrows whistled down around them. Grunts and cries proved that several were not nearly so lucky to be dwarf-sized, and Varric found himself gulping back a mouthful of bile. There just weren't enough Qunari to start losing men, now. Stealthily, he peered over the edge of the balustrade, taking in what he could of the plaza below. The pavement was pitted and cratered in several places, rubble lying everywhere and anything that could burn was hard at the task. He looked for the signs, those glimmers of light and shadow the Legionnaires had painstakingly described to them. It was the only way to spot a shriek before it got too close. Too close meant too late.

The craters made for the opportune location. Even the lithe former elves could not get the best footing on such terrain, and that is where their dark gift failed them. Taking careful aim, Varric leveled Bianca at the plaza and waited, holding his breath to steady his quaking hands. The constant firing of cannons certainly didn't help matters, but it did give a boost to the confidence. When this was all over, he'd have to write extensively about how artillery was the best thing to never happen for any other culture.

" _Saarebas!_ " he heard shouted just as a rhyming triplet sang from Bianca's drawn string. He grinned when two shrieks materialized and went down. Quid pro quo. This for that. The Qunari were damned good at turning tides, and a veritable tidal wave was about to roll in.

* * *

With midnight came the dragons. The Arishok had the signal lit, a simple fuse that set off a popping of colorful, fiery florets across the sky. Isabela didn't need any further prompting. It had been an agonizing wait upon the cliffside, her unit forced to watch the city burn and brothers fight an increasingly losing battle. Even from this distance, she could see the hellish magic unleashed by darkspawn emissaries. Worse, she knew that chained and tongueless _saarebas_ were fighting back with little more than the electric force of a summer storm.

She gave a shrill whistle, and they took flight. Dark and silent, they swooped down upon the horde that swarmed the _viddathlok_ steps. Only a handful of Qunari at a time had been fending them off, trading places as sword arms grew weary. The sight of the dragons gave them heart, and a cheer rose up when the first wave of dragonsbreath swept out over the enemy, searing them, killing them, causing those that suddenly looked up and saw to retreat in fear.

But their numbers were still far too many.

Isabela guided Pearl over the sea of bodies, letting her mount play with the creatures like toys before incinerating them with the passion of an ancient grudge. The emissaries turned their wrath upon her and her men but couldn't get far. Dragon claws were faster than spells. Dragon fire was hotter than the molten core of a volcano. She had fought all of one dragon in her lifetime. That had been more than enough to prove to her that going up against half a dozen would definitely require an army. Particularly an army that didn't run for the hills at the very sight of the creatures they loved to hate.

Enough had the courage. At the _viddathlok_ , the Arishok was feverish in delivering orders and ensuring the wounded quickly got the proper treatment. A full score had fallen victim to blight wounds. More than half of them perished at the administration of Asari's cure. Those that survived fought back with a fury far hotter than the battlefield around them. Their reflexes had improved, their anticipation of the next movements of the darkspawn all the more keen. Sten of Ferelden took each such soldier into his ranks and forced them into a fringe group of the creatures thronging the pyramid's base. They cut through them as if, suddenly, their fewer numbers were on a more even keel with the masses, and the glint of a smile could be seen on the Blight veteran's face. It was as if, in that moment, he had stepped into his dear friend's shoes. A Warden-Commander amidst his peers.

Too often, though, they were forced to retreat back. Whenever the dragons were out of range, the darkspawn grew bold and renewed their efforts. Sten pulled his men back inside the _viddathlok_ proper. A minute he took to address his commander, nothing more.

"We can't waste time," he shouted over the din around them. "Cut off from their gods, they still have a connection to the broodmothers. We must find them!"

The Arishok gestured to his men still taking turns at the bottlenecks the entrances formed. "We have no choice but to engage here!"

"I will only need a few. We take the tunnels the vermin burrowed in through. And we follow them to the heart."

"Sten." It was the look more than the tone that caught the hornless Qunari's attention. "Come back with your _asala_ or not at all."

That was all the more permission he needed. Taking the handful of true Vashoth Stenok, Sten of Ferelden descended into the blackest depths beneath the battle-fraught earth.

* * *

"Patience, my sisters. Let them gather more closely. The Qunari still have this well in hand."

"But, Grandmother, they weary!"

Adda held up a hand to quell the fears of her youngest companion even as she stifled the vengeful rage of Justice within her. This was no normal spirit she harbored. She had known that right away. He was aware of this world—keenly—and had the taint of mortality already upon him. But it was her duty to do as he asked as it was his to do no harm to the innocent.

And there were so many innocent yet in the way.

When one of the dragons went down, her breath caught. Arrows had torn its wings. Ropes tethered it to the broken pavement. Its Qunari rider was pulled down from his saddle and torn apart by the limbs. And Justice raged.

"Grandmother!"

She could feel it before she could consciously acknowledge it. Adda knew her eyes burned with blue fire. She could see him just inside her vision, glorious as a hero of old yearning to burst forth and save the land from this most disastrous evil. Her fellow witches clasped hands as their own spirits reacted in kind. The Fade beings, unable to be stoic any longer, broke through their mortal shells to take hold completely of the vessels so granted them. They stood at the pinnacle of the _viddathlok_ , that place with the most sweeping view of the terrain. It had been too far out of range for the limits of Rivaini witches, but for what the spirits had planned, it would suffice.

"This is where it ends!" Justice shouted, his voice keening sharply through the valley.

Blue flame gathered at Adda's feet, growing in height and breadth with every passing moment. Around her, the other witches became similarly consumed, the hot angry rush of purity and honor and mercy swelling into a righteous inferno as if the pyramid erupted with the very fury of virtue. Brighter and brighter and all the more dense the Fadelight became as the women held hands, their bodies nothing more than the grounding point the spirits so needed to work their magic.

The light shrank to a pinpoint, dousing the entire city in darkness as flames both natural and chemical were snuffed out. For a brief moment, the entire world seemed to grow deathly still. Even the darkspawn halted in their acts of carnage as curiosity overwhelmed them.

The answer came. An explosion deafening in its silence burst forth from the circle of witches, blinding energy sweeping over the city and surrounding landscape with a harsh and stinging wind. Qunari threw themselves to the ground and covered their ears, the sudden scream filling the air enough to chill the most stalwart of hearts. The darkspawn hadn't the time to react. The magic was aimed at them, power surging forth from the raw Fade with only the intent to consume and destroy anything that opposed it. Honor, mercy, purity...justice. Only the highest virtues of the Fade could temper its most corrupt offspring.

And they would temper it with the smiting will of the Maker.

* * *

The light of dawn never seemed to dim as it did that morning. The Arishok walked amongst the wounded before he saw to numbering the dead. Of the four hundred souls that had trained with him for months in Par Vollen fewer than half survived without the need of the blight cure. Of those that had been forced to ingest the potion, half again yet lived, forever changed in ways they had yet to understand. Blades were gathered and reverently stowed. Bodies were burned in massive pyres. Prayers were recited unceasingly, ringing in the Arishok's ears like so much white noise.

He found the one he sought.

She lay upon a crimson cloth. Her gnarled hands rested upon her abdomen as her chest weakly rose and fell with shuddering breaths. Curling black hair filled with more white than it had ever been splayed out from around her head. At least her face was peaceful, eyes closed in restful sleep with no sign of the spirit behind them.

The Arishok knelt beside Adda in order to take one of her hands in his, praying as he did so, the same prayer that was being given for all the others that their souls might be at rest.

"Do not mourn me, Qunari."

He started at the voice, silver-violet eyes popping open to meet the old woman's deep black ones. He felt them sear into him, bore into his very soul as only a fellow Qunari could, understanding what lay behind the eyes, resided beneath flesh and bone within the very core of being.

"I owe you my honor, _kadan_ ," he managed to whisper in return. His throat was drier than he had ever known, a tight lump forming there as if his own body threatened to choke him.

Adda coughed out a chuckle. "You owe me nothing." The coughing became more pronounced as her frail form convulsed with the effort merely to breathe. "Justice is returned...I know what it means now." She managed to smile up at him. "Make sure you tell her."

The Arishok gazed down at her, perplexed. Before he could form the question, she answered.

"It means you." She swallowed hard and tried to draw in more air. "The Qunari will be...strong again...and restore order." Her grip tightened. Those dark eyes widened as if in alarm. "Do not...fail..."

And she breathed no more.

* * *

Four heads were brought to the Arishok by the following evening. Not a single darkspawn corpse could be found in the city or the surrounding hills, but Sten of Ferelden had seemed to have no issue finding the demons below ground. _Vashuneera_ , the dreaded broodmothers that both spawned and controlled the demons, now lay dead by Qunari hands. Not a single warrior in the Blight veteran's company had been wounded beyond repair.

That did not mean the battle had not been hard-fought. Each broodmother had her own part of the hive, larvae and young thick underfoot as Sten had never before seen. It wasn't until a silence fell, a silence following a terrible screaming, that the Vashoth Stenok were able to truly move forward with their duty. Justice had been swift, their blades sharp and ready and the broodmothers seeming be more in mourning than having the will to fight. But fight they did, lashing out as a _basra_ woman scorned, the most desperate of forces any man could face.

The Arishok looked down at the grotesque trophies as they leaked black blood into the sand. Once elven, human, dwarf, and kossith, they showed almost nothing of their former lineage or demeanor. A wan smile curled his lips as he clasped his brother by the shoulders then embraced him tightly.

"Son of the Qunari," he murmured, his voice quaking with emotion, "you give your people cause to rejoice. _Qunoran_."


	69. Defiance

"You want to what?"

The expression on the Ariqun's face defied description. There was something of shock in it...and mild terror...and something akin to an incredulous frustration. She and the Arishok sat alone in her office, the wizened woman in her Dragon Seat and he upon a low sofa. It was nearly a month since the liberation of Kont-Aar, and the Vashoth Stenok were only recently returned. The men had insisted on ensuring the city was safe, clear of enemies, and many had even stayed behind to commence the rebuilding efforts until stonemasons and other craftsmen could be sent from the homeland.

"I find it prudent to abdicate my position, Ariqun," was the steady reply. He had thought long about this matter since the heads of the broodmothers had been brought to him. It had not been a difficult decision to reach, but the issue had been in how to convey his argument properly.

"Why?" Her voice still conveyed sheer disbelief. "You were born for this role, as was your father before you and his still before. Your blood has been made strong through the generations. Each Qunari is what he is for a reason. Why deny yourself?"

"I deny nothing, Ariqun. I merely acknowledge what is. Our enemy is no longer merely Tevinter or other such _basra_. The _vashun_ are a real threat that only one of us has ever truly faced. It is he that should lead the _antaam_ , he that can spread our truth across the world again."

"He is a half-breed."

The Arishok narrowed his eyes. "He is capable. And it will be a diplomat that we need as well as a soldier. He already has allies among the Grey Wardens and the leaders of Ferelden. Our former territories lie between Par Vollen and Ferelden...it is as a vice. Rivain is already awaiting enlightenment once more, eager for it and many living as if we had never left. Tevinter will be as nothing-"

"It is nothing you can't manage, yourself, Aqunan," the Ariqun interrupted, insisting on using his childhood qualifier to ensure that she had his attention. "You do not simply abandon what you are."

"I never said that I would. I merely state that, by blood or otherwise, there is one among us more qualified to lead our body forward. _Forward_ , Ariqun, not merely maintain. Mine is the blood of a war against Tevinter, our first and most hated enemy. Even with all our planning and strategy, Kont-Aar would still be lost to us were it not for Sten. We have prided ourselves on knowing our enemy. It is imperative this trend continue."

The Ariqun sat back, her hands folded in her lap though there was still a tenseness evident in the square of her shoulders. There was a pain in her eyes the Arishok had never seen. She was not in favor. He could tell. The positions of the Triumvirate were not supposed to be hereditary. As with all other things, they were to be earned by accomplishment and quality. That the woman betrayed that tamassrans over time had purposely bred for the best possible candidates could not have been accidental. Par Vollen had only just begun to stabilize again. Seheron was holding breath awaiting for the inevitable Tevinter backlash. Now was not the time for another transfer of power.

"Ashlok," the Ariqun called out after a long silence. Her aide promptly entered, wringing his liver-spotted hands nervously and dipping his head low.

"Yes, Ariqun?"

"Tell our sisters to come in."

"But...the Arishok-"

The Ariqun held up a hand. "Our meeting will still continue. But I believe this other matter may involve him." Her golden eyes fell upon the Arishok, brows knitted in thought. "And may affect us all."

The _ashlok_ bowed multiple times as he left, licking his lips in vain to ease his obviously frazzled nerves. Not a minute later, two kossith Ben-Hassrath came marching in. A struggling female human was clutched between them in the white tunic of a _viddthari_...of prisoner. Ginger hair. Pale skin. She barked futile orders at her handlers in the trade tongue. Ferelden dialect. When her face turned sharply to the Ariqun and Arishok, the latter found himself stunned by disbelief.

"Guard Captain...Aveline!"

The prisoner's hard green eyes narrowed. Her voice was as stony as her expression. "Do I know you, sir?"

"Indeed," the Ariqun put in, looking from Aveline to the Arishok. "Does she know you? You seem to know her."

"She was a companion to Ma—Serah Hawke." The Arishok was on his feet, walking a circle around the Fereldan woman to verify that it was actually her. He remembered the voice, the hair and face that could have made her Marian's own flesh and blood. But out of armor was something new. His next was addressed to Aveline. "How did you come to be here? The bounty?"

"Concern for a friend," was the angry reply. "Not that I would expect the Qunari to understand. I explained everything at your Maker-be-damned blockade, but it made no difference."

The Arishok shook his head. "The journey here from Kirkwall is not something one makes for pleasantries or coddling." His voice lowered, thick with a growing anger that was hard to keep in check. " _He_ sent you."

"Who do you mean, Qunari?" Aveline snapped back.

"The prince whose sense has burned away by the fire of his hair."

"...Prince? Sebastian!" The woman almost choked on her own laughter. "I come on orders from a king."

The Arishok started at the light touch of a hand. The Ariqun, the very soul of temperance, stood at his side, her attentions fixed upon Aveline.

"What business has your king with the Qunari, _basra_?" Her voice had an edge to it, a level of caution best reserved for traitors and the untrustworthy. The Arishok knew that Aveline was neither—at least not to where Fereldan interests were involved—but now was not the time to speak on her behalf.

"I will only speak once I've seen Hawke." She winced. One of the Ben-Hassrath must have gripped her tighter.

"If that's what it takes," the Ariqun replied, her tone not softening. She merely bowed her head shallowly as instruction to the Ben-Hassrath. The two women turned and marched their charge away. "You shall speak. And we shall hear you."


	70. The World Asunder

Marian was not of a mind to move when they came for her. Her back hurt, and she felt clumsy to be on her feet. But she got up and followed all the same. Her sister Ben-Hassrath conveyed the sense of urgency without saying a word, an the woman followed in like manner. She was taken to a room typically used for educational lessons. The long rectangular space was divided in half by a folding screen of opaque fabric stretched over a black iron frame. In chairs before it sat both the Ariqun and Arigena. Beyond them held by two more Ben-Hassrath and confined to a chair was their Fereldan prisoner.

"Hawke?" It was spoken more with disbelief than alarm, the woman's eyes wide and fixed on Marian's swollen abdomen.

"Aveline!" Marian stopped short with the surprise. The Ben-Hassrath near her quickly shuffled her into a chair before her knees could give way. "How did you get here?"

"Same way you did, I imagine. I _knew_ I shouldn't have let Isabela-" She broke off, mashing her lips together and scowling. "That bitch's Qunari problems are yours all over again. And worse! Look at you!"

Marian rested a hand almost protectively on the swell of her pregnancy, the linen gown garbing her soft and loose to provide as much comfort as possible. The _taarbas_ sash was still wound about her, higher on her ribs like an empire waistline, and the deep crimson stood out against the pale lavender. Her eyes narrowed. This was dangerous ground for even a sister-friend to tread, and her mind was jumping to all the worst possibilities. The unborn child kicked. She swallowed her reaction to the sudden pain. There was a face they were to maintain in front of _basra_. Even if they were old friends.

"Aveline," she began once she could muster neutrality into her tone, "it is my honor to introduce you to the Ariqun and Arigena, two of the three heads of the Qunari."

"We've met," Aveline replied, not interested in any more than one thing. "I'm here for you."

"You knew I didn't want to be followed. This was _my choice_ and is no business of yours."

"Hawke," the tone was calmer, conciliatory. "I know that. I don't like it...but I know that." Aveline eased a little, her eyes almost sad. "I'm here under orders from the king—from Alistair. The Free Marches are falling apart when he needs a unified force of allies."

"Use Sebastian."

"Sebastian is the crux of the issue. He finds Kirkwall responsible and is goading them to civil war. I think it's mostly due to your continued absence, but he won't admit it—not beyond that bloody reward he threw to the four winds some months back. Knight-Commander Cullen is holding fast, but I don't know what will happen. Hawke. Your trail goes cold in Rivain, the village of Seere. I'm still the only one that knows you were transporting Qunari. Please...come home before they come seeking _me_ , and we get into a worse mess."

Marian leaned back in her seat, the golden teak creaking with her weight. Her gaze had gone immediately to the Ariqun and Arigena, both women regarding her with expressions of unreadable patience. Only the Arigena showed any sign of sympathy, the crinkles of a hidden smile playing around her eyes. This all had the ring of a test to it. It was as if this was one last trial before she could be truly a part of them, to shun her old life when it reached out for her the most desperately. As if bearing a child for the Qun willingly—beyond willingly—were not enough. But she knew they were not so petty. They would not have made her Ben-Hassrath if they had any such doubts in her heart or loyalty.

What was this, then? To talk of civil war...and to involve Hawke, now Qunari, would involve _all_ the Qunari. There was no avoiding it. Such a subject required the wisdom of one she did not see. There was not even a representative of the _antaam_ in the room. Only women discussing a matter that was not their realm.

"I do not understand, Ariqun," Marian said lowly in Qunlat. "What is going on here? What is expected of me?"

"We are trying to understand, ourselves," was the reply. "All I hear is _basra_ squabbling amongst themselves. Again. As they always will. However, that being said, I can see why it is that they seek you to be this unifying force they so need."

"As can I," the Arigena put in, her ever-smile creeping prominently back to her face. "Though the Arishok did not return to us after his search for the Tome of Koslun, his words did. And the stories from the others. You are to these people what I am to the Qunari: an organizer, a delegator, the one who puts idle hands to good use."

"The one who bashes heads together in hopes that people will act for themselves?"

The Arigena's smile broadened at Marian's quip. "You would be surprised at the difficulties we have with some of our own. The tamassrans don't always get it right, and it can make you wish that you were never born. But we do what we do because we must." Her attention turned to Aveline though she did not address her. "And I sense an opportunity here that we have not had in some time, many generations."

Aveline cleared her throat and looked pointedly at Marian. No further prompting was needed to coax the latter back into a more universal language.

"You came here for me, Aveline. It would be best for us all if you could detail exactly what you mean by that."

The captain of Kirkwall's city guard shook her head. "It is only that, Hawke. And were there more, I'm sorry, but I can't find it in me to trust Qunari. Not after what they did. Over a book."

"The Chantry has done far worse for much longer over the word of a woman that claimed the Maker of all that is spoke to her and her alone. A creator and protector that has been mute and absent ever since. But we are not here to debate theology and philosophy. Is Kirkwall really so lost that they think a lone woman can save them? The very woman they shunned most of the time she lived among them?"

"Yes," was the trite reply. "But you know it wouldn't be so simple. They've lost the Chantry, Hawke. If you want to compare it to the Qun, by all means, let's do so. The people of the Free Marches have lost their bastion of faith, and Ferelden is already beginning to feel the sting. Orlais roils at the border. Return to Kirkwall. Marry Sebastian as you promised that he may be put at ease. That will be enough to unify the Marches and give Ferelden its necessary line of defense."

"This is Alistair's plan?"

"Some of it. He also fears what will come later. We don't know how soon. The Circles are...disbanding. We don't quite know what to call it. Mages are foolheartedly following Anders' example in some regions and turning apostate. But not just them. There are already rumors of rogue Templar outposts, just as rebellious and equally as dangerous. The world will fall to chaos if something isn't done!"

Marian bit at her lip as the baby kicked again. It was hubris to think that all of Thedas could possibly be saved by her return to Kirkwall. Anyone with any sense could see that such would only be a bandage, one that would quickly soak through and need changing before very long. And, for as much as she might have desired it once, it turned her stomach to think of marrying Sebastian—even if peace could truly be brought about so simply. Not to mention that she was in no condition to travel, play at war, or even think of showing herself to a man who would never understand the half of it.

There was always another way.

"Where is the Arishok?" she asked, her mind run out of options. The whole Triumvirate needed to come together on this. Two of the three, at least, were keen on giving the matter their attention.

"I am here, _kadan_."

Marian started at the voice. Low yet full, it rumbled out from behind the screened divider with an all-too-familiar timbre. If he had been present the whole time, she certainly hadn't suspected it. The months of yearning came welling up, and she suddenly felt her heart fly to her throat. Words failed her. Thought spiraled together into an incoherent mass of noise and irrational feeling. She was close and still was forbidden to see him. Not until the child was born. Not until she was strong enough to resume her normal duties. He must never know. It did not stop her from trying to bore a hole in the screen with her eyes or hope that every shadow was the curl of a horn or slope of his shoulder.

But she knew what she heard in those four words. It was a maelstrom of emotion to rival her own, the breaking of his heart for their mutual sacrifice, and the overwhelming rage of a jealous lover. The other female Qunari in the room did not seem to give it much notice.

"Have you heard enough to voice an opinion, Arishok?" the Ariqun asked over her shoulder. "It was you that told me earlier that Ferelden would be significant in restoring what has been lost to us. Is this opportunity enough?"

"It is, Ariqun. But it will call for trust, an alliance. Our histories speak of no such things since the Homeland."

"We will worry about that later." She gestured to the Ben-Hassrath guarding Aveline. The two women helped their charge at once to her feet, but it was not as gruff as before. "See the _basra_ to a chamber and have her washed and more adequately dressed. One of our sisters must be with her at all times, but she is a _guest_. As temporary an arrangement as we can possibly make." With another gesture she dismissed them, the women marching the Fereldan out.

Aveline cast a glance back at Marian, her eyes at once pleading and sharp as the keenest blade. She didn't trust the word "guest". She didn't believe at all that her mission showed a hint of progress. Even Marian lacked the insight to sense what could possibly happen next. But the Champion of Kirkwall breathed easy all the same. For struggle was an illusion. Her trust was in the Qun.


	71. Desperation and Duty

The deliberations seemed to go on forever. The Council of Kithshoks was convened, meeting in the great hall with the ranking golden-girdled _tamassrans_ and master craftsmen of the _gena_ with their bronze gorgets. This matter had accelerated from involving only Marian to the entire Qunari people, many agreeable to just the chance to "correct" the matter of Kirkwall. That wasn't the point. There was no room for a vendetta, no gain to be had. The Arishok took the floor to declare as much.

This, he proclaimed to them, was a far richer opportunity, one to win back what the Exalted Marches had stripped from them. Rivain was already pliable. The colony at Seere was established and in order. Kont-Aar was stable and ready for repopulation. The _karataam_ and _inistaam_ had already been assigned and dispatched. Rivain, Antiva, Nevarra—all between Par Vollen and the Free Marches. Quell them with the aid of a sympathetic Ferelden—for was not Sten among their glorified heroes?-and the rest would be swallowed by a rising tide.

For days, they debated and planned. Aveline was brought for questioning with Varric at her side. The official reason for the dwarf's presence was for the taking of notes, but it was at Marian's insistence as it was impossible for her to attend. Aveline welcomed the company and familiar face, relieved still further to find Fenris, and even Isabela, healthy and whole even though it was at the dwarf's word only.

Varric made sure to point out Asari. The _tamassran_ sat amidst her sisters on the raised benches. She had been promoted to the council out of turn thanks to her work against the blight sickness. Her council service otherwise wasn't due for another year. This, too, Varric explained with all he knew about Qunari politics flowing as easily as one of his stories. It passed the time while the actual politicking was going on around them.

"This is the best part," he murmured on the fifth day. All Qunari had been given a single clay token stamped with the basket weave. Two large urns sat at the front of the hall, a queue already forming. The vote was for whether or not the journey south was prudent. And it was not only a simple journey. Representatives of all classes would be sent. Advocates familiar with the Free Marches and Ferelden would go. It was urged that the one formerly "Serah Hawke" go in particular, as it was more likely the _bas_ would hear her before all others. Asari had spoken vehemently against this on medical grounds, but it could not be denied that the idea was strategically sound. Marian had been the one sent for. She would be the one to answer.

Alliance was not familiar to the Qunari. Diplomacy was rarely the most expedient route. But the necessity for the foreseeable future was obvious. The _antaam_ was a shadow of its former glory, and it was crucial that the _bas_ never find out. Varric half-heartedly made not of this, keeping his notes to one of the many Qunlat codes he had been taught. He, too, would be sent back home with Marian and the others, and no matter how much someone would be willing to pay for this information—the Divines, the Crows, even what was left of the Circle—the very thought repulsed him. He was privy to things no outsider had ever seen. Even Aveline had been moved by the eloquence of the orators the previous days, her mind reeling from the realization that Qunari were people like anyone else. They fought and died for their beliefs. They loved and sacrificed for their children. They cherished life above all else.

"Damn you, Hawke," the dwarf her Aveline mutter. "Damn you for being right."

The chink of the tokens falling into the pots seemed to keep time for the next few hours. Every member of the combined councils cast his or her vote, plunging both hands into the pots, one in each, and dropping the tokens to keep their choices anonymous. When the final vote was cast, two _tamassrans_ stepped forward to count the contents of each jar. Then, they checked the other's result. The tallies were presented to the Triumvirate and the Ariqun rose to make it public.

"My brothers and sisters, it is as it is written: May the wisest go forth into ignorance to make straight the way." She held up the parchment heaviest with hash marks. "As the voice of our people, you have decided that we go out into the world once more, that we finally relieve our former territories of the quagmire of confusion they have long suffered, and that we begin with one small step at a time." She waited for the thunder of approval to die away. "I remind my brothers and sisters that the only military will be Vashoth Stenok. Our _only_ initial aim is to defend against the _vashun_. Our _purpose_ is to bring more to the Qun by example rather than by force. Truth is never born of duress, Koslun long ago taught us, and we must remember.

"As in generations past, the advocates will be led by a Kithshok and Tamassran yet to be chosen. However, the role of _basragena_ must be filled by Serah Hawke. The _bas_ will expect her to lead them, and this, too, is opportunity."

No further details could be hashed out just then. The councils dispersed to meet individually and decide which would be selected to go abroad. They needed to be chosen wisely, for there was always the chance a new colony was possible and could thrive. There was always, also, the chance that they would be overwhelmed by hostiles. Since the days of Koslun, none could remember a diplomatic move without the face being the elite of the _antaam_.

But a desperate people couldn't afford to be so choosey. And the rest of the world could never know they were so desperate.

Varric and Aveline made their way up through the _viddathlok_. They both wanted to find Marian to make sure that she knew. They were going home, whatever that meant these days. Only Aveline seemed to be in any way pleased with the result, and even that came with hesitation. A Ben-Hassrath still stood guard over her, but it was more of a formality. She was still Other, _basra_. But she was now an ally.

The nursery could be heard before it was seen. Children were squealing in delight, in selfish arguments over toys, stampeding circles around the floor. Kossith with nubby horns, elves with too-big ears, humans pudgy and pink. Aveline stopped, stunned, as her mind tried to reconcile her established conception of the Qunari and the innocent harmony before her. Varric smirked. This was nothing. She needed to see the Festival of Tides.

Marian was sitting on a long cushioned bench. Children crowded about her, sitting cross-legged on the floor or on any available space on the same seat. Her face was lively and smiling, her arms and hands telling as much story as her voice.

"And do you know what Koslun did next?" she asked the little ones, her eyes bright and voice exaggerating the enthusiasm. Varric swelled with pride. He'd taught her this particular art.

"What, _benna_?" one of the toddlers gasped. All around, attentions were rapt, mouths agape, those old enough to even begin to understand held captive by the story.

"He took the _basra_ prince by the hand and led him to the seashore. The waves had gone out, the tide low. The sun burned red in the sky, and there was no sound beyond the waves coming to greet them in turns. They stood there. Koslun had insisted that the prince simply listen, listen and breathe. And it was then that the prince understood. There was an order to things, natural and necessary. The sun would always rise and fall. The tide would always flow in and out. Breath must always be drawn and expelled. To live was to obey these simple rhythms. It was then that he understood."

"What did he understand?" Aveline asked curiously, arms crossed before her.

Marian looked up at her old friend, her green eyes the most serene the fellow Fereldan had ever seen them. "That there is no room for struggle and chaos in this world. They are things created by selfishness and want. Jealousy comes only from the desire for more than one needs. Victory over all strife comes from understanding that."

"Does it also mean that you do your duty no matter what? I seem to remember the Arishok alluding to such things at length during your chats."

"Yes. It does."

Varric wasn't sure he liked where this was going. He'd hoped to be less blunt in the delivery of the council's decision...perhaps even sound a little...what was the word...excited. But if Aveline was good for anything, it was being blunt. Maybe even tactless. But there was no telling where it could go with Marian being in the state she was.

"Good. Because your duty takes you to Kirkwall."

 _And here it comes..._.

"I know."

 _Wait...what...?_ There was no emotional outburst. No sudden rage or how-dare-you response. It was delivered and absorbed like innocent talk of the weather.

"I can't run from it forever," Marian continued, reserved. "Whether it was now or in a decade would have made no difference. I created a void and failed to fill it. I did not rebuild what was conquered." Her eyes shifted to Varric. "When does this happen?"

The dwarf shrugged helplessly. "They're still deciding that. Right along with who all goes with you."

Marian nodded. She reached out beside her and pulled one of the children close. "Then leave me be for now. I still have my duties here." And she went back to her story as if uninterrupted, the children quickly engrossed in another story.

Aveline heaved a sigh through her nose, her gaze still firm on her friend despite knowing she was ignored. Before she could do anything that would likely get her into trouble, Varric pulled her into the corridor, the Ben-Hassrath guardian keeping a close but polite distance.

"What is wrong with her?" Aveline breathed, exasperated. "Pregnant _and_ complacent? Varric, this is not the woman I've known. Why is she acting like this?"

"Because," Varric replied, smirking up at the Guard Captain like it was some private joke, "she's Hawke."


	72. Riding the Tide

As with all other things for the Qunari, time was not wasted. The Ariqun delivered the news, herself, on who would go abroad to aid Marian. The look on her face revealed the lack of pleasure she took in the matter. Asari would be the ranking Tamassran, taking little Talan with her to learn what she could from true Grey Wardens. She would be the only _imekari_ for reasons of safety—but how precious she was! Still, she had needs outside the realm of extant knowledge, and that could only be provided abroad.

The Arishok would be reassigned as Kithshok.

"I remind you that this is _not_ because you asked," the Ariqun said lowly to him at the docks. The _Hawke's Flight_ and one other transport vessel—a refitted Antivan frigate—were being made ready for the long journey. "For the sake of your honor, you cannot be separated from your _asala_. Sten acts as Arishok in your stead because none want to lose another to such a deadly pit of corruption. But understand this: the moment you return home, you are reinstated. There is no changing who you are because you wish it."

"I do not wish that, Ariqun," was the reply, the male kossith's eyes fixed on the activity before them. "As you should not break your own rules on account of me."

"Break my-"

His head turned sharply toward her, silver-violet eyes narrowed in an icy resolve. "My father. I did not need to know who he was. I shunned that privilege as Qunoran, and you should have respected that choice. Has enough guilt not already been imposed upon me that I must be punished further?"

"My intent is not to punish."

"Then why insist upon such things? I heard the Council—Sten's accomplishments made him a hero to _basra_ , not Qunari. Yet, those accomplishments restored Kont-Aar where my knowledge alone would have only cost more lives. And they are not gone. Yes, I can learn. I can learn to defeat the _vashun_ and move forward. But he has the ability _now._ I returned to end a personal agenda before it destroyed us as a people. Vashkata—my brother, fallen to the greed of Tevinter. That was my purpose, and it is over. My remaining as Arishok only furthers another agenda that will drag us down the same road for a different reason."

The Ariqun smiled, sad and proud in the same instant. "And that, Aqunan," she returned with a light touch upon his elbow, "is why you are so very ideal for what duty is earned you."

* * *

Isabela stood at the helm, the glowing wood of the spiked wheel gripped loosely in her hands. The salt breeze was strong, and the rise and fall of the ship resting at anchor was a long-missed familiar lull. And she hadn't realized _how_ much she'd missed it. Her eyes took in the city above her, the pyramids and columns and domes of granite and alabaster splendor, the tower housing the dragons rising above it all. She would miss this, too, she realized. The early days had infuriated her. But even that... Isabela looked down at her fingertips, remembering how Qunra had made her embroider until they bled. The knitting. The sewing. But she could disarm an opponent faster and more deftly than she ever could before, avoided being disarmed herself, and ever since she learned the secret of training dragons...

Standing at the helm never felt so limiting.

"Aqunaran, are you alright?"

Isabela started at Asari's voice. The kossith stood on the deck below, her arms and shoulders laden with boxes and satchels filled with her medical supplies and notes. She was looking up, concerned, her own task forgotten and foot traffic clogging up behind her as sailors tried to bring other cargo aboard.

"Later, sweetling," the captain replied, motioning for Asari to move out of the way. "There are more important things to do than fuss over me."

Asari quickly shuffled off, apologizing to her brothers as she ducked into the captain's cabin. Her charge was within, already safely stowed away and resting. When she was gone, Isabela left her post, moving about the deck giving the final directions for where things needed to go, which cargo would best serve for ballast, the phrases she would use to signal adjustments of sail, tack, and if the oars were necessary. Once upon a time, nautical terms had been universal. That was before she knew that the Qunari had over thirty different words for "ocean", three separate words for the color of seafoam (none of which related to green), and terms for different wave types and unseen currents that she never even knew existed. The House of Tides was a title well earned.

It was another hour before the last of it was brought aboard, the remaining passengers coming with it. Varric and Fenris walked up the gangplank together, the dwarf once more in possession of his duster with Bianca over his shoulder. Fenris had maintained his Qunari leathers as highly preferable over his original armor from Tevinter. But the Sword of Mercy was still his, would always be his. Behind them came the Arishok—now Kithshok—dressed down in a woven crimson sarape and linen trousers. His armor he carried in arm, and his other belongings were few. The Amell shield. A sailor's knapsack. There were none abroad that would ever believe that this man in any way could stand toe to toe with a king.

The moment his feet hit the deck, sailors moved in behind and raised the gangplank. Cables were loosed from the docks below. It was not long before only the anchor held the ship in place. Kithshok was at Isabela's side in the space of a heartbeat.

"Isabela," he said with a quirk of a smile, his voice a gentle thunder audible only to her in the din on deck, "set her free. For, as it is written, the ocean is the Qun...and we move with the tide."

* * *

A week saw them put Seere behind them. They had stopped to drop off supplies and to check on the progress of converting the old Chantry fortress into a _viddathlok_. Asari oversaw the delivery of scrolls and books meticulously copied by _ashkaari_ , and Varric made his rounds about the village to check on the progress of renovations. Adda's house stood empty of life but still full of her things. Embrium chocked the herb garden and the elfroot and other things potted on the windowsills shriveled from thirst. There was a particular truth about justice that few bothered to realize. It was a balance. It was a sacrifice. Spirits and mortals both felt the sting when things went very wrong.

They were on their way again quickly, sailing the long expanse of Rivain's eastern shore. The wind was light and could barely push them along. The sun was garishly bright, and the air was thick with humidity that signaled an unseasonal shift in the weather. Kithshok kept his soldiers occupied with a daily _shok-ana_ , a chorus of _ar, daan, tin, sen, fa_ carrying out over the water and echoing back from the hilly coastline. It was interrupted only by one thing.

"I swear, if you count to five one more time..."

The men stopped mid-drill, eyes gawking in alarm and amazement. On this particularly still morning, Marian had emerged from the captain's cabin, heavy with child and scowling. Curls of her red hair were plastered to her temples and neck with sweat. One hand supported her abdomen while the other guided her stiffly along the rail. Her eyes blazed fire at the soldiers who, it was obvious, had no idea what to do with themselves at this particular juncture. Even Kithshok was ashen, his throat working like it was impossible for him to swallow whatever was suddenly choking him.

There was an explosion of limbs as Asari pushed her way through the tongue-tied crowd. Her golden skin was flushed with heat and agitation, and her own eyes were bulging wide.

" _Banisera_ , you should not be here," she exclaimed, rushing over and grabbing Marian firmly by the arm. "Please, get back to your quarters at once!"

"Leave me be, Asari," was Marian's fuming reply as she tried to wrench herself free. "I need air. I need to _move_. Besides, I'm sure they've seen a pregnant woman before."

"They have _not_ , sister." The words were delivered through a clamped jaw. Marian heard more a tinge of fear than anything resembling anger. This was a transgression that under normal circumstances required intervention. But this was a ship—a small ship—where there could be no such thing as privacy. The look on Asari's face smoothed as this dawned on her, the pallor of Marian's cheeks lending credence to the need to see sunlight. "But...they are not...ignorant of such things. It was more important that you and Kithshok continue to avoid each other. I was hoping-" She glanced over her shoulder, the kossith in question had long since politely turned away and crossed to the far side of the deck.

"Hoping that you would be able to maintain the rules as is expected of you?"

"Yes. And it is to my shame that I have already failed." Asari still held Marian by the arm but more gently. They walked together along the rail as the soldiers tried to get back into their rhythmic drills. "But this will be a journey of breaking rules, I believe. We travel with as many women as men. More craftsmen than soldiers. Never since the homeland have we shown anything other than our martial face to the world. This...this is more as Koslun would have wanted. I know it in my heart. But it frightens me, _kadan_. And you? You are returning to what broke you. You must be an Arigena that _leads_ in order for our purpose to be assured." She tugged at her braid, fingers twisting the curling tail of platinum hair below the binding. "Everything is backwards."

"Everything is changing," Marian replied softly, her sour mood broken. "Ferelden, the Marches, Orlais...perhaps others. If Aveline is right, the whole world may be a different place in some not so distant tomorrow. I once served the Chantry as one of its protectors. I now serve that same purpose within the Qun. Remember, _kadan—_ the sea is changeless. We are as the tide, rising and falling, but always flowing along a guided path. You taught me this. You have shown me, and I have come to understand. We are being sent to temper the gathering storm. And we will. Victory is already assured."

"Victory is in the Qun."

The human woman nodded. "We will walk in Sten's footsteps. His allies are already promised us."

"The Grey Wardens?"

"One of whom is a king. We will not be without our strengths even without a full _karataam_ in readiness. But you will need to listen to anything that Varric or Fenris or Isabela advise—not just me. Even Aveline if it comes down to it. Ferelden may not mind, but Kirkwall is still very sore about nearly being purged the last time we were there."

Asari smiled and almost laughed, her golden eyes glittering. "You say that like you were one of us at the time."

"Who's to say that I wasn't?" Marian paused their slow walk once they reached the aft castle deck, turning to look down below them at the men in ranks moving in tandem with a routine long practiced. _Ar, daan, tin, sen, fa_. Every drill consisted of five moves. As the Qun only truly demanded five things of its followers. If three was the number of completion, five was the value of perfection.

And, with what loomed before them beyond the gray horizon, they could afford to be nothing less.


	73. Right Between the Eyes

They convened again near Llomerryn to finalize plans. The Antivan ship pulled up along landside with gunports open. They did not dare anchor close to the port and made sure there was a flag of truce. But such things rarely deterred brigands. The bronze of the _gaatlok_ cannons gleaming hot in the sun, however, would have stopped even the Black Divine's prized armada. The piloting Aqunaran came aboard with the Sten who had liberated Seere. Vashoth Stenok he was now, a cruel scar on his arm testament to his brush with the blight sickness.

"We cannot waste time," Aqunaran stated gruffly, muscled arms crossed over her chest. "Eventually, those _vashedan_ pirates will realize they have superior numbers."

"We'll be brief," Kithshok replied as Aveline was also brought over by her assigned Ben-Hassrath guard. She alone had been kept separated from the rest, more from the former Arishok's lack of trust than any tactical reason. He recognized the woman's over-indulged sense of duty, and it wasn't necessarily to their cause. "Basragena has advised that we enter through the district called 'Darktown' to avoid as much attention as possible. The cliffs below are high and sheer, so it will still be impossible to put in anywhere but the dock proper. But my time there let me learn a few things. We put in near the elven Alienage. The inhabitants will leave us be and not breathe a word."

"You know this for a fact?" Aqunaran questioned, incredulous.

Kithshok gave a barely perceptible nod. "Those elves are the reason I am still alive."

"That speaks nothing for their loyalties, now. ...Regardless, we have little choice if we are to be successful. You have been to this place. The rest of us have not. Do not let our trust be misplaced."

"On my honor," was the reply as Kithshok's eyes shot back over to where the island city of Llomerryn sprawled to the southwest. "But I said we would be brief. Guard Captain, once we reach Hightown, we will require the cooperation of your men. They must be a buffer between the people of your city and our presence."

"I can't say they'll like it, but I can get them to listen. So long as your stay is a short one."

"It will be as short as your king wishes it to be."

"We should move on." Aqunaran made a gesture to get her crew back aboard. She had seen the signal from her crow's nest. Something was on the move, and it didn't bode well. "We'll take the rear, Kithshok, as before. It appears that we're about to be followed."

There was no surprise in the observation being correct. Within a league, a half-dozen Raider ships set course for their wake, picking up speed as their sails caught the wind. Smaller, swifter, their countries of origin didn't matter when it came to how they cut the water. All the sails in the world couldn't push the Antivan frigate past the restraining weight of her cargo and shot, and the _Hawke's Flight_ couldn't trust her Orlesian curves to move her any faster than an ungainly sashay.

"If we can't outrun them," Isabela muttered to Kithshok as he kept watch behind them, "can we at least...I don't know...blast them from the water?"

"There is that distinct possibility. Most marauders would rather be cowards and run than risk their ships being holed." He watched as the Antivan banked hard to port, the move accompanied by rapid echoes of cannonfire. "Explosive shot."

"Double the fun," the woman commented back with a wry smile.

"Just keep moving. Aqunaran knows her duty."

They cut as straight a swath across the mouth of Rialto Bay as possible. The frigate fell out of sight below the horizon but would periodically sail back into view, the air sporadically punctuated with blackpowder thunder. By nightfall, they came within sight of the Minanter estuary, the frigate's crew wearily waving the all clear but the ship none the worse for wear. But it was only clear behind. Ahead lay the sprawling shores of Antiva dotted with coastal cities sporting ships of the finest make south of Kont-Aar. A dreadnaut would have been preferable but far too conspicuous.

And they had been taken by Crows in these waters once already.

Ever watchful, they sailed on. The darkness was as silent as it was complete, but they guided by the light of the stars and the distant Estwatch beacon. None spoke if it was not necessary. Soldiers kept to strict rounds and slept in short shifts. The Antivan frigate could have slunk through easily enough were it not for the significant modifications. The Qunari had never found much honor in subterfuge, but Isabela really wished she didn't have to hold her breath through waters she'd once ruled.

Dawn twilight brought them within sight of Hercinia and a return to sound so unexpected and jarring that Isabela nearly turned the ship about in alarm. Below. It came from below. Below her own feet.

Bodies converged at the doorway to the captain's cabin. Soldiers had their blades at the ready. Sailors looked on out of curiosity but held back in fear. Kithshok pushed through. He knew the source of the screams as Isabela did, and he forced himself through the crowd and the low wooden door with sword at the ready.

" _Shaltam_ , _Qunari_ , _you do not belong in here_!"

Surprised soldiers scuttled backward as Kithshok found himself thrown against them. The door slammed in his face as the screams continued. Asari had kicked him out, a frantic tone in her voice, and she, too, could be heard from stem to stern by a crew made even more nervous than they had been expecting a murder of Crows. And it didn't get any easier. Hours passed in this way. Or perhaps it merely felt that long. A visibly shaken Kithshok paced the aft castle deck. Sataareth was gripped in his white-knuckled hand, veins and sinew popping out along his arms. If things below grew still, he would abruptly halt, his long legs taking him immediately to the rail above the cabin door. But he was constantly thwarted. The silence was only an illusion, the wood of the ship muffling the sobs and gasping breath.

When Asari emerged again the sun was high above, though it barely warmed the chill of the southern air. She climbed the steps in robes stained with blood, which did little to quell anyone's nerves. But her face, though tired, still held a certain brightness, a smile peeking through a fog of exhaustion. "She sleeps," she said in response to worried expressions. "Both sleep. And the annals have recorded a male, healthy all things considered. His juvenile qualifier is Benassen—impatient of heart—for he could not wait."

* * *

Kirkwall could loom in any light. By day it had a dreadful appearance. By night, it was worse, jagged teeth of stone rising into the sky from the mountainous terrain. Square fists of dwarven architecture punched upward through a misty shroud. The sky was thickly overcast, Isabela struggling to keep her bearings amidst the rocks and shoals that acted as a natural barrier between the Waking Sea and the Twins. The last time she had come from this direction, it hadn't been by choice...and involved torrential rains and waves the size of castles. There had been Qunari then, too. But she hadn't been _one_ of them.

Bronze statues and chains. After months of life in Qunandar, she'd forgotten how terrible the rest of the world could be without even trying. She shivered, partly from the cold air and partly from the resurfacing of repressed memories. An arm wrapped about her shoulders, warm and sisterly, the embrace firm and comforting.

"Don't worry," Marian said as she smiled through the gloom, her red hair loose about her face. She was back in her Ben-Hassrath uniform, a week on her way to being her old self again. The armor suited her, the sword and shield at home on her back. Poppy juice took care of the rest to astounding effect. "Aveline affirmed that not much has changed beyond a growth in the chaos. But, given where we are, would you expect anything less?"

"This plan requires that we put our faith in strangers."

"Well, I seem to remember that's how we met. And look how that turned out."

The ships slid silently past the Twins and their chains, cutting through the murk to anchor near the Alienage as planned. Kithshok went ashore alone, the humans and elves aboard the ship moving about while the kossith stayed below. The Docks teemed with life even during these midnight hours, and the sight of a horned head was too dangerous a thing to risk. More than one, anyway. Kithshok had dropped to the sandstone quayside without a care in the world, unarmed, and dressed only in his trousers and boots.

An hour later, he returned. He walked up the gangplank of the _Hawke's Flight_ with two elven dockhands flanking him as if nothing could be more normal. The two men quickly helped those on the ship organize, moving small groups back down the plank and into the Alienage. From there, they were guided through the maze of Kirkwall's sewers. Skeleton crews of humans and elves were left behind to mind the ships, others from the Alienage beginning to work them in the early dawn hours as if it were nothing more than a shipment of cheap Antivan wine newly arrived.

Darktown was easier. Marian and the others skulked through old, familiar shadows to where Anders' clinic once had been. The lanterns still hung, but they had long gone dark. Not far away was the old hatch to the basement of the Amell estate, likewise forgotten and in some state of disrepair. Varric and Fenris scouted out the passage before waving the others through, the dwarf paying particular attention to Asari who had a tiny bundle tied about her chest. Her assistant, a young elf girl with hair like fire, carried the other, beaming despite herself at Talan clutched safely in loving arms.

Marian waited until the end. She wanted to make sure that they hadn't been followed, even peering over the cliffside railing to check for Carta or worse.

" _Kadan_."

She turned at the voice. Kithshok stood near the hatch expectantly, a hand and foot braced on the ladder. His other hand he held out to her. Her palm came to rest on his, warmth rising to her cheeks in the same instant. Blood pounded through her ears in a maddening rush. They had come full circle, the two of them. They had fled Kirkwall broken and returned to it whole. The stink bothered her more, the oppression was heavier. But, just then, it didn't seem to matter.

Marian stepped forward and climbed the ladder into the passage with Kithshok behind her. Despite where she was going, she never felt further away from home.


	74. A Future for the Qunari

She awoke in the relative comfort of her own bed. What was left of it. The shock of seeing the posts and canopy hacked to pieces dissolved when Isabela reminded her of one of her less dignified moments. But there had been clean sheets in the chest, and when Marian pried her eyes open from the deepest slumber she'd experienced in months (aided by more poppy juice—Asari really needed to be less free with that) an even pleasanter sight greeted her. A fire roared upon the hearth, flames fending off the Kirkwall spring chill with a welcome heat.

Kithshok sat before it, cross-legged and absorbed in meditation. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved with silent words as he recited passages from the Tome of Koslun to himself. His shoulders were set but relaxed. His scar was prominent in the play of light and shadow, but his breathing was easy, serene. He was more at peace than Marian could ever remember him. She took that thought with her as sleep reclaimed her again.

It was hours before she awoke again. The downstairs hummed with activity as Qunari tried to understand the fundamentals of _basra_ existence. Why was the bathing area fitted only for one? Why were the wine casks so large and larders so small? Why decorate the walls with Tevinter relics if they were not spoils of conquest? A louder murmur arose when someone pounded on the front door. A scuffle. Silence.

After a moment, women's voices could be heard on the stairs. Marian struggled out of bed, an aching cramp overwhelming her abdomen, and flailed for her robe tossed over the back of a chair. The knocking on her door was gentler, accompanied by Isabela's sing-song tone. Once Marian could consider herself decent, she opened the door for her friends.

"Good morning, Aveline," she said with the brightest smile she could manage. For all that was still on her plate these days, all she could concentrate on was what might be lying around that could dull pain. The smile had the underlying tightness of a grimace, a wince.

"Afternoon," Aveline replied with a small smile of her own. Relaxed and genuine, she had the appearance if once more being comfortable in her own skin. She was back on familiar terrain in her worn armor of the city guard. "You've been sleeping like the very dead. Not that I'm terribly surprised, but there is a lot to do." Her expression grew serious and she stepped closer. "Hawke, Sebastian arrived in the night from Starkhaven. He's practically taken over Viscount's Keep, pitting the nobles against each other hoping to get Alistair to support _his_ claim."

"His claim for what, exactly?"

"That there was an arrangement between you and him. That Kirkwall and Starkhaven would merge into one united power." She shook her head. "He's never stopped obsessing over what Anders did, and you were the only one that could keep him with a level head. You and Elthina. And he lost both."

Marian inhaled a deep breath, drawing in as much as she could and holding it there. She needed to feel that burn, the strain of muscles and skin pulling against the bones of her ribcage. When she let the air out again, it was with a turn on her heel, a few measured steps across the room to her wardrobe, a rummage for something appropriate.

"Find Asari and Kithshok," she said to the others without turning around. "We do this, now."

* * *

The Hightown market was in full swing when the guards arrived. Two rows of six armored men marched up to the door of the old Amell estate. Many shoppers and shopkeepers alike stopped what they were doing to look. The place was abandoned again, they knew. The Champion had gone, taken by pirates and likely dead or lost at sea. No one had wanted to take over the place, not after rumors of a mage's ghost being seen about the place. But the guards arrived all the same, keeping to their two straight rows even as one stepped forward to knock on the door. He stepped back into line, and they waited. The whole square waited. Only the birds bothered to make noise, having no care for such goings on.

After several minutes, the door to the estate opened, and Guard Captain Aveline stepped through, walking straight along the column with three others behind her. Two were tall and horned, one male and the other female, terrible Qunari invaders with their metallic skin and grim faces. Just before them was a human woman in a long crimson gown embroidered with the golden blazon of her house. Her red hair hung loose down her back, and her shoulders were left bare by the Orlesian fashion wealth had afforded her. A coordinating sash hung at her hips, the long tails blowing in the wind, but the insignia wasn't nearly as interesting as the one who wore it. Marian Hawke. Not dead or lost but very much alive and returned. Her features were just as severe as those of her companions. Were they companions? It was impossible for the people to tell, but it can be said that they felt dread at their very presence regardless of their reason for being there.

The column marched directly for Viscount's Keep. The guard kept the Qunari well enclosed as they reached the steps, the female the only one daring to look about her as if she found something about the architecture fascinating or unsettling. Even as the crowd clustered together and followed, the guard moved ever forward and held people back. Only a few were curious enough to turn around and look back at the house. Even fewer wondered what was truly going on. Had their hero returned? Or was it their conqueror?

* * *

Arguing could be heard as soon as they were inside. Aveline and her guards shoved open the huge wood and metal doors to be welcomed by an angry din of enraged nobility. Marian found herself lost in thoughts three years laid to rest. The Qunari purge of Kirkwall, the corralling of the nobles in this very castle, the same level of discord and distress permeating the ancient stone. It didn't even pause when they arrived at the heart of it all, the entourage just another throng of bodies in a maddening swarm. Nobles from all over the Marches were present, yelling at each other and jabbing fingers accusingly. Sebastian was shouting out something from the carpeted steps. His white enameled armor gleamed like that of a divine warrior. His body language bespoke a gall and courage he'd not had before the annihilation of the Chantry. Were this a different time, had fate not led her where it had, Marian would have been beyond proud.

As it was, she was increasingly annoyed with every step they fought for across the floor. She could see Alistair sitting in the Viscount's throne, his cheek cradled in one hand and a crestfallen slump to his posture. He wasn't even looking out at the crowd anymore. Interest lay more in the scratches in his golden armor. Progress eventually became impossible. The rabble was far too self-absorbed to even take note that there were kossith among them let alone a contingent of the city guard.

Aveline raised her left hand into the air and let it drop. Seconds later, the air crackled with a small firework as Varric, long hidden in one of the alcoves, shot one of his special _gaatlok_ bolts up into the rafters. Women screamed. The ruckus of voices escalated as the startled nobility ducked and cowered as if being attacked by maleficar. A magnesium-bright flash followed as Isabela released a flare of her own, ensuring that the crowd was face-down upon the floor. Only the guards and their charges remained standing, Marian defiantly staring down the man to whom she had once promised her hand.

"What is the meaning of— _Hawke_!" Sebastian staggered forward in disbelief, one hand keeping him upright along a balcony wall while the other raked the dark auburn of his hair. "You...you're alive!"

"I am. No thanks to you."

The Prince of Starkhaven stopped in his tracks, confusion overwhelming him. "I searched for you for months! I summoned every able body to find any trace, any clue! I swear to you, I-"

Isabela's fist stopped him before any more drivel could escape.

"You sent the _Crows_ after her, you idiot!" she exclaimed, kneeing him while he was doubled over. "Castillon got your little ransom note. And all of Llomerryn. And every bloody Templar this side of Val Royeaux. Is that how you express love and concern for your betrothed? _Is it_?"

Marian had to grab her friend and pull her back before Sebastian wound up missing teeth. "We are here to _stop_ a war...not cause one," she rasped into her ear. They backed away enough for the Prince to regain his footing and some semblance of dignity. She addressed him as he rubbed at his tender jaw. "I'm here in answer to a summons from the King of Ferelden."

"Me?" Alistair piped up as if only just coming awake. "You actually... Well. Alright then." He awkwardly cleared his throat and stood, coming down the stairs to meet the lot of them as equals. It was something Marian had always respected about him from the news she'd ever received out of Ferelden since the Blight. The sandy-haired youth had matured into a fine man and capable leader. But it was times like this that she also understood the rumors. Tales that he was also bumbling and a bit naïve, kept on task by the joint efforts of his uncle and the Warden Commander. For the moment, he was Alistair, King of Ferelden, and Marian gave him the salute of respect that he deserved as _basalit-an_.

"Aveline was able to reach me, sire," Marian explained. "And I have brought you allies. The Chantry has already lost its grip on Rivain, and others are sure to follow after the incident that happened within this city. Without the stability of the Chantry, Orlais falls, and Ferelden will be the first to suffer."

"You brought Qunari."

Marian blinked, unsure if she should be impressed with the observation or perturbed at the possibility that he might be disturbed by their presence. "They rescued me from the sea and kept me safe from those wanting the bounty on my head. When they heard that a Grey Warden called for aid, they felt obligated to respond."

"I see." The king's amber eyes examined both Asari and Kithshok from head to toe before settling back on Marian. "And what inspires this sense of duty? The tide does not rise simply because it wants to." His attention flashed to Kithshok when he noticed the tall kossith jerk in surprise. "I am not totally ignorant of your ways, friend. Which, to be honest, is what makes this so curious."

Kithshok stepped forward to speak. "Will you accept our blades if they are offered?"

Sebastian burst forth before the king had a chance to respond. "The aid of Qunari? Your majesty would be well advised to remembered the tragedy that these butchers are responsible for. Hawke, you above all should know!"

Alistair held up a firm hand, his eyes never leaving those of Kithshok. There was nothing of the young man in him, now. The lines of his face were hard, his gaze like steel. His feet were poised the breadth of his shoulders. He looked every inch a king worthy of respect. _Banisera_ , worthy of following unto death.

"I fought beside one of your brothers when the entire fate of the world depended on it," he said in a tone that carried to every corner of the hall without sounding like he was even raising his voice. "I know the value of your promises. I know how much your honor is worth. But I cannot ask you to break your agreement through the Llomerryn Accords."

"The Llomerryn Accords," Kithshok replied deeply and with no less volume, "are no longer relevant." A gasp rippled through the air, and whispers furiously were exchanged back and forth. He held his arms open wide as a gesture to the whole crowd about them. "These _basra_ saw to that years ago."

"You dare to imply that _we_ instigated hostilities!" Sebastian made to move forward but would not move from beside Alistair. "The Chantry will not stand for this."

Kithshok motioned to Marian and Asari, nodding to Aveline that they were finished. The king had posed his need in his own way, and they had responded in theirs. The details could be worked out later. He turned, ensuring that the Prince of Starkhaven got a plain view of the shield upon his back. It was more than the man could bear. He burst toward them, reaching out to grab Marian up by the arm.

"I would mind yourself," Kithshok snarled, catching Sebastian like a child after forbidden sweets, "and build your walls high. For your Chantry has abandoned you...and the tide is rising."

And they left behind them a sea of disbelief. Eyes unseeing, minds uncomprehending, as fat dathrasi only just realizing that their feasting had come to an end, and there would be nothing more.


End file.
